The Killing Season
by Evie Delacourt
Summary: Four years after KKB, the renegade Count Teymuraz, now exiled from Torenth and rebuilding his power base from Byzantyun, hatches a plot to overthrow both Gwynedd and Torenth, while a deadly epidemic decimates the Eleven Kingdoms. King Kelson and his Court discover that, even in the relative safety of peacetime and improved human/Deryni relations, life is never truly secure.
1. Chapter 1

** The Killing Season**

Prologue

Gwynedd, July 1132

_Summer had come early to the Eleven Kingdoms, and with the summer heat had spread a plague across the land. A fever plague, first arriving in Gwynedd from the port at Desse, but swiftly spreading outwards from there, like ripples radiating outwards from a tossed pebble to cover the entire land of Gwynedd. The other Kingdoms had been touched by it as well, the contagion spreading at first among the coastal towns, but then moving inland with those who fled for safer havens._

_ But no one was safe. Neither nobleman nor commoner, for the fever-flux was no respecter of persons, laying waste to rich and poor alike. Among the oldest and the youngest, the infirm and those heavy with child, it took its highest toll, as such things were wont to do. Castles and manors alike closed their gates, imposed strict quarantines, but to no avail. The fever continued its relentless march throughout the land, a cruel conqueror defying any army's might._

_ Some claimed the plague was God's punishment upon the land, though few could agree on a cause for such divine wrath. A few blamed the Deryni—there would always be _those_—though fewer believed this now than might have a mere generation past. Others said this was but a test—Divine or otherwise—an ordeal to be endured and mastered so that Gwynedd and the surrounding Kingdoms might only come out stronger, like steel tempered by fire. Still others said it was mere happenstance, a bad roll of the dice of Fortune._

_ Whatever the reasons, the fever-flux marched on. Marched from Desse as far east as Coroth and the Rheljan Mountains. As far west as the Connait. As far north as Claibourne and the Kheldish Riding._

_ Even the Court of Rhemuth lay under siege, the city gates closed, the castle secured, new arrivals screened carefully for signs of illness before being admitted. And even so, even in Rhemuth the Beautiful, the bells tolled for the dead._

_ And in the midst of the chaos brought about by the fever-flux, the viper struck. An attack meant to cut not just to the heart of Gwynedd, but more directly into the heart of her King. An assassin's strike, one timed to exploit just such a season of weakness. One set to cause mortal injury when Kelson of Gwynedd was most distracted. One intended to leave the Haldane dynasty floundering, with an infant Prince and an unready Regent who might be easily subdued in all the chaos. Subdued, defeated, and crushed under the heel of one more suited to rule. One who considered his own claim over Gwynedd more rightful._

_ Whoever controlled Gwynedd would control one of the most powerful of the Eleven Kingdoms. And its claimant, once his hold upon it was secure, soon planned to turn his eyes towards the _other_ Kingdom. The Kingdom of his birth. The Kingdom which would, soon enough, see his triumphant return. _

_ And he would crush its cub of a King under his heel as well._

_ But for this first strike against his mortal foes, he would not dirty his own hands. Would not risk entry into a fever-ridden land just yet, during the killing season. What use to conquer Rhemuth's King, only to die in his own bloody sweat and vomit mere days later?_

_ So he sent an underling instead to make the first strike, create the first undercut that would eventually fell the great tree of the Haldane rule. Later, once the frosts had come, once the fevers died away and the cities were safe, but before the people could reunite and regather their strength, he would come into his kingdom._

_ The _first _of his Kingdoms._

_ Teymuraz, Grand Duke of Phourstania, erstwhile Count of Brustarkia and Regent d'Arjenol, smiled as he anticipated his long awaited vengeance._

**Chapter One**

_ March 5, 1132_

_ Byzantyun_

"Mirjana, bring refreshments for our guest!"

She hastened to do her husband's bidding, knowing that the penalty for disobedience, or even for not complying as quickly as he might wish, would be severe. Even as she left the room, she sensed the visitor's dark eyes watching her, the bold eyes caressing her retreating form, despite the opaque veils she took pains to wear in his presence. She shuddered. She knew he would make no overt move—not only was her husband his liegeman, but his own marriage to the Grand Princess Justiniana was still quite fresh, his position as the newly-created Grand Duke of Phourstania not quite secure enough in Byzantyun's Autokratórial Court for him to be indiscreet in his liaisons.

But in private, during the rare occasions when they were briefly alone, when her husband was in another room or otherwise occupied, his lord had made covert overtures, subtle yet unmistakable.

She loathed him, but dared not show her feelings openly. Dared show _no_ feelings openly, not to him, not even to her own lord and husband.

Her husband Nikos von Brustarkia, fully his liegelord's loyal man.

She hated them both, but was powerless against either.

#

_March 9, 1132_

_ Transha Keep_

"Ye've a fine, strappin' baby boy, Lady Ailidh!"

Sir Jass's lady wiped a light sheen of sweat from her brow as she watched the midwife clean the creamy vernix from her newborn's skin before swaddling him tightly in a fresh new blanket Ailidh had just finished sewing for him a few nights before. She reached eager arms towards her child as soon as the midwife had finished, drawing him to her breast and watching in wonder as the tiny rosebud lips instinctively rooted and then latched on, nursing hungrily.

"Aye, he's Jass's son all right; greedy little piglet!" she said, gray-green eyes glowing with maternal fondness. She laughed softly. "Just listen to him grunt! Shh, _mo chridhe_, there's plenty for ye there; when one goes empty, I've another. Ye needn't gulp it down all at once!"

"All tha' snuffling about an' moanin' jus' means th' wee laddie is complimentin' th' chef, m'Lady," the midwife joked. "So, wha's his name tae be, then?"

"Jarrett," Ailidh told her, stroking the bit of chestnut fluff atop the baby's head with one finger. "Jarrett Cauley MacArdry."

"Well, 'tis a nice strong name. Let's tidy up a bit here, then, an' I'll inform Sir Jass tha' he has another son. I'm sure he'll be relieved tae know ye came through safely, and wee Ciaran an' Aine Rose will be glad for a chance tae meet th' new brother."

"Aye. An' then shoo them right back out again, would you please? I feel like I could sleep for a year!"

#

_March 15, 1132_

_ Tre-Arilan_

Sophie de Arilan stirred slightly, trying to return to her sleep, but it was of no use. The mild nausea was becoming more insistent, and she knew from her first two pregnancies that it would not subside unless she washed down a few bites of dry toast with a few sips of small ale. She sat up slowly, taking a few steady breaths to settle her stomach, then reached for the remedy already placed at hand on her nightstand by a chambermaid knowing full well what her mistress would be in need of each morning during these first early months of pregnancy.

Seisyll rolled over, his blue-violet eyes fixing upon his still slender wife as she nibbled delicately on the toast, washing the crumbs down with the ale. "You all right?" he asked.

"I will be in a few minutes, if I can get enough of this down without losing it first," she assured him.

He sat up, planting a light kiss on her shoulder. "Poor sweeting. This stage should pass in another month though, shouldn't it?"

"Hopefully. If this babe's like Stefania and Jamyl were, at any rate. "

Seisyll lay a hand lightly on his wife's abdomen. "Nothing's showing yet. Hardly a bump there. Such a small thing to cause so much disruption!" He grinned, scooting back down on the bed to kiss the still mostly-flat belly. "Behave, son!"

Sophie chuckled. "That, too, will change in another month or two. Then he'll be a bigger thing causing different kinds of disruption."

"Hopefully he won't be quite as active as Jamyl was. I'd half thought about renaming him Froggy."

Sophie laughed, washing down the last of the dry toast with a final sip of small ale. "I'm still wondering if that might not be appropriate. Jamyl's barely walking, and yet I caught him trying to hop down the back steps last night. Sextus is rebuilding the barricade today."

Seisyll snorted. "He's only 'barely walking' because he figured out how to run first! Or at least it seems that way. Even Sextus is having trouble keeping up with him." He grinned. "Though it's a lot of fun watching my brother try. Speaking of 'lots of fun,' how are you feeling now?"

She raised a dark brow at her husband, noting the gleam in his eye. "Better, but not _that_ much better." Sophie said with a quiet laugh, leaning over to give him a tender kiss on the forehead. "Tonight, mayhap?"

"All right. I need to pop over to Rhemuth for a bit anyway, but I should be back by nightfall." Seisyll winked. "Especially now that I have incentive to return quickly."

#

_March 21, 1132_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

"Duncan Michael, come here right now!" the toddler's father told him sternly. The young lord, dressed in Kierney colors somewhat dulled by the addition of a light coating of mud spatter, grinned up at his father from the edge of the fish pond. "Why did you run off from Nurse Mhairi?" the Border Duke added as his son approached. He took the lad by one hand rather gingerly, trying not to get any mud smears on his own Court clothing, and turned to return to their apartment. With any luck, he could hand his son over to his household's keeping and still make it to the Great Hall in time for the start of Court.

"She din't wanna come teach th' fishes. I _like_ teachin' th' fishes!" was his son's enigmatic reply.

Dhugal stared down at his son in puzzlement. "What do you mean, you like teaching the fishes?"

Clear green eyes, so like his mother's, shone back up at him. "They do trickses. Like swimmin' in circles an' stuff."

Dhugal came to a stop in the garden path. "They do…tricks?" He tilted his head at the lad curiously. At only two and a half years of age, little Duncan Michael had certainly not started any formal sort of Deryni training yet! "Son, can you show me?"

The boy beamed, all too eager to show off his newly discovered talent to his father. At the edge of the pond he stopped, carefully approaching the slick bank so he wouldn't fall in—though at least this time, Dhugal stood ready to catch him if he looked to be in danger of doing so—and dangling one chubby toddler hand over the water. A small school of fish, maybe five or six in number, swam over to investigate. Pointing one finger at them, the lad began to move it in a slow circle, tracing a halo above the little school. As one body, the fish began to follow the motion, swimming around and around in ever expanding circles in mimicry of the little boy's finger.

The finger began doing a serpentine motion, waving up and down, left to right, over the water. Again, the fish followed.

He gave the finger a sudden flick upwards. Only one fish jumped, shiny body arcing out of the water briefly before descending again with a splash.

"I can't do it good yet," Dhugal's son said with a slight frown.

The Duke chuckled. "Oh, I think you did _quite_ well. But you mustn't come back down here—or to the other pond nearer the practice yard either—unless you're in the keeping of your nurse or your mother. Or myself, of course. Actually, you shouldn't be out of the nursery at all without one of us."

"Not even with Papa Duncan?"

Dhugal smiled. "Well, all right, you can come back with Papa Duncan too. I'm sure he'd love to see you training the fish. But come along, now; _you_ need a bath and _I_ need to get to Court!"

#

_March 30, 1132_

_ St. Hilary's Basilica, Duncan's study_

"All right then, _anamchara_, what of the question of Junia the apostle?" Catriona MacArdry McLain's clear green eyes sparkled in challenge as she leaned forward in her chair and took a sip of cider.

Duncan grinned at his daughter-in-law. "What of _Junian_?" he riposted. "Or should I say, Junianus? Granted, Paul's use of the accusative case makes the name's gender unclear, but it's been quite thoroughly argued that the form of the name Saint Paul used in his reference to his relative and fellow sharer of the Gospel is merely a shortened form of the name 'Junianus' or 'Junius'. Which are, of course, masculine."

Cat snorted. "Aye, it's been thoroughly argued by Gwyneddan churchmen too blinded to see the patently obvious, or look beyond their own local church history, you mean. You're too good a scholar to let such biases cloud your judgment, though. You _do_ realize, don't you, that there's absolutely _no_ evidence in written record that the male name 'Junianus' was _ever_ shortened in that manner, while on the other hand there are at least 250 extant records to show the common use of the name 'Junia'? The very _female_ name 'Junia'?" The corners of her lips twitched as she saw his grin widen.

"Of course," Duncan averred. "Or at least I do _now_, since you sent me scurrying to the ancient texts after your last visit to research the matter. I just wanted to see the fire flash in your eyes and smoke pour out of your nostrils." He chuckled, taking a sip of his ale. "Of course, none of that changes the fact that Paul's phrase 'They are outstanding among the apostles' may simply have meant that they were outstanding _in the eyes of _the apostles, not necessarily that they _were_ outstanding apostles. The phrasing lends itself to both interpretations, as I'm sure you must know, being a scholar yourself." Duncan raised an admonishing eyebrow at his soul-friend and sparring partner. "And since when has _any_ scholar been immune to the blinding effects of bias?"

Cat laughed. "So, you're admitting you're arguing from a biased perspective?"

"Of course! And so are you. No matter how much either of us might try to view the matter—or _any_ matter—from a strictly objective viewpoint, it's humanly impossible."

"And now you're trying to sidetrack me. Well, Junia or Junianus aside, there's no disputing the fact that the Church in Byzantyun, which even the most hidebound of your Gwyneddan clergy has to admit was in full flower long before _your_ particular branch of Christendom sprouted a bud, has at least forty references to female _diakonos_ in their early church records."

Duncan poured himself more ale. "All right, then, I'm willing to yield on the matter of female deacons, at least for the moment, although I'm sure even you clergy of mist-shrouded and insular Llyr must admit that deacons are _not_ priests. More cider?" Duncan tilted his head towards her nearly empty goblet.

"Admittedly." Cat smiled. "And no, although I'd love more, I think your granddaughter has had quite enough."

The bishop gave his daughter-in-law a delighted smile. "Oh, then it _is_ a girl! I'd hoped she might be."

"Aren't you supposed to be hoping for a spare ducal heir instead?" she teased.

"All in due time. I can't imagine you and Dhugal were planning on stopping after only two babies."

"Now that we've figured out what's causing them?" She grinned. "Not on your life!"

Duncan laughed. "Well, good. I suppose I should be delighted, for the sake of my son's ducal posterity, that our two churches have theological differences on the subject of mandatory celibacy for clergy as well."

Cat leaned back in her chair, kicking a soft-booted foot out in front of her and examining it idly. "So, tell me, does the mere mention of me still make Denis Arilan break out in hives?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself; he's supposed to be stopping by sometime this afternoon." The bishop smiled. "Denis doesn't hate you, Kitten; he has a certain grudging respect and admiration for you, actually, despite your many differences. He's just wary of your teeth and claws. _Must _you take such delight in sharpening them on him?"

"Iron sharpens iron," Cat joked with a feral grin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_ April 1, 1132_

_ Byzantyun_

The two men stood on opposite sides of the small table, gazing upon a map of Gwynedd.

"Before we invade our enemy, we must soften them up beforehand. And we must give Kelson such a distraction that he will be far too pre-occupied to suspect our strike until it is too late." A dusky finger stabbed at a port town close to the Kingdom's capital.

"Here," Teymuraz said. "Desse will be the perfect place to launch the first attack. It's a mere five miles south of Rhemuth, and with any luck, this strike will do the job for us. If Kelson dies without anyone having to lift a finger, so much the better for us. But if not..." Teymuraz shrugged. "_That_, my friend, is where you and your men will come in." He pondered the map a bit longer. "And here also," he added, stabbing the finger at Coroth. "Both for strategic reasons and, I'll admit, more personal ones." He looked up at Nikos with a smile dripping with pure malice.

"Duke Alaric Morgan?" Nikos added, returning the smile.

"Indeed."

Nikos gave the map a thoughtful look. "All right then, you plan to strike Desse and Coroth, yet somehow you hope this first strike takes out the enemy without us having to become personally involved. What sort of attack are you planning?"

"Why, magical, of course!" Teymuraz raised an amused brow at his liegeman, a smirk playing on cruel lips. "Do you really think I went through decades of arcane training and study for nothing? Parlor tricks, perhaps? No. Kelson fancies himself a Deryni King, a patron of the Deryni arts. Let's see how well he handles an assault upon his Kingdom by a _real _Deryni King."

"So, what sort of _magical _attack are you planning? And surely Kelson will suspect your involvement right off, if you're planning to attack with magic!"

"I never said I was planning on being _obvious _about it, Nikos!" Teymuraz laughed. "No, to the people of Gwynedd, it will appear to be a simple plague, the sort of fever that sweeps through the land now and again. All_ I _shall do is help it along a bit. That is to say, introduce a source for the contagion and establish the conditions under which it can flourish and spread. A simple bit of weather magic, for the most part. Granted, very _powerful _weather magic, but just enough to help Nature along with the inevitable."

Nikos frowned. "All right. So what's the cure for this plague?"

The Grand Duke smiled. "There is none. You either die or you don't. With any luck, Kelson and Morgan will die, but if not..." He shrugged. "They'll still be quite distracted. And that's where _you_ would come in."

"But if there's no cure..." Nikos looked alarmed.

"There's no cure, but there _are _preventatives," Teymuraz said with a laugh at his liegeman's expression. "I will give you and your men a potion that will help to render some immunity to the plague before you set forth, if it should come to that. And you might consider adding considerable amounts of garlic to your diet as well."

"Why garlic?"

The Grand Duke chuckled. "It's said to repel mosquitoes. Of course, it might also repel your wife."

Nikos von Brustarkia gave an amused snort. "_That's _hardly of any concern. I'm afraid my Mirjana, though quite lovely to look upon, is not very keen on bed-sport. Fortunately, she serves well enough for producing heirs, and Byzantyun has no shortage of willing whores to make up for her lack of warmth."

"Then she should prove no deterrent to a change of diet," Teymuraz said, clapping Nikos on the back before turning away to hide a grin. Personally, he suspected Mirjana's coldness towards her husband was probably due more to Nikos' legendary impatience than any fault in the filly herself. He wondered if her husband had ever bothered to spend more than a few brief minutes to spend his own lusts upon her. The occasional flash of fire Teymuraz had seen in the young woman's eyes boded well for other passions deeply hidden, perhaps to be discovered if only she had a more patient and thorough bed-partner.

He certainly hoped he would have an opportunity to find out someday.

#

_ April 5, 1132_

_ Coroth Castle _

Richenda slapped absently at the insect buzzing next to her ear. "Is it just me, or does summer seem to have arrived early this year? And why are we already having a problem with mosquitoes?"

"It _is_ unseasonably warm, Your Grace. It might be a good idea to set out smudge pots around the Great Hall and other areas," Master Randolph suggested. "That might help to keep the little pests at bay."

She nodded. "I was just thinking the same thing. I'll have that seen to, then." Richenda pondered. "Also, I suppose some fine netting canopies around the beds would help, especially the children's. Cheesecloth should do, I would think. That will make for an easier night's rest, without blocking any cooling breezes."

"Yes," Randolph agreed. "The nights are cool enough at the moment, but by midsummer, if this keeps up, they're likely to be sweltering. You'd want to have at least some windows open to allow in some cool air in a month or two, I'd think."

Richenda smiled. "So, I take it you're not among those physicians who believe that the night air is poisonous?"

The man laughed. "Jesú, no! I'd be dead by now, if it were!"

#

_ April 7_

_ Byzantyun/Autun_

"I'll take you through first and let you become familiar with the Portal's signature. Then we'll return for your family." Teymuraz had not been happy at first about that last concession, but eventually he realized that Nikos would be more biddable with his wife and heir close by. If nothing else, should the man become balky when it came closer to time for him to execute his part in the plan, Teymuraz would have some means of leverage to ensure Nikos's compliance.

"As you wish, Your Grace," said Nikos. He forced himself to relax in his liegelord's grasp so that Teymuraz could impose the controls necessary to carry him through the Transfer Portal to their unknown destination.

With a sudden wrench, Teymuraz brought them through. Nikos's consciousness went blank for several seconds, but then, as the world re-coalesced around him again, he found himself in an unfamiliar, but comfortably furnished, room.

"Where are we?" Nikos asked.

"Southern Autun, in a mountain holding. This is the private residence of...well, let's just call him an ally for now. Formal introductions can wait." Teymuraz raised an inky eyebrow at Nikos. "All right, man, let's not waste time. Go ahead and memorize the location."

Nikos crouched to memorize the unique signature of the Portal he stood upon. After a moment he straightened again, nodding to his liegelord.

"Good," said Teymuraz. "Let's go bring through the others, then."

#

_ April 9_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

"He's asleep at last?" Dhugal asked, leaning back against his pillow as he watched his wife comb through her tawny-gold hair.

"Aye, out like a light. Mhairi's nearly so as well. I told her we planned to retire for the night, so even if Duncan Michael wakes up again, she'll attend to him."

"Good." The Duke smiled. "He's an active little fellow. Are we sure we're up to having another so soon?"

Catriona laughed, turning to face him. "A little late for you to be asking_ that_, isn't it?" She put down the comb and began to braid her hair loosely in the manner she preferred to keep it secured away from her face for sleep.

He grinned at his quite obviously fecund wife. "No, leave it down for now. I'll do that for you. Later."

"Later, hm?" Cat smiled at her husband as she slipped into bed beside him. Her green eyes sparkled with amusement. "So, is that your way of telling me you still desire me even now that I've got the lithe and graceful figure of a beached whale?"

Muscular arms encircled her as Dhugal leaned in for a kiss. "Hardly a whale, _chuisle_," he whispered, his amber eyes alight with mischief. "Simply a ripe, succulent, and very tasty fruit."

His Duchess burst into laughter. "A fruit, am I?" She glanced down at her abdomen. "A pear, I'd say, and a rather overripe one at that!"

"Good thing I'm partial to pears, then," Dhugal assured her, stroking her belly, now grown large with their second child. "How has our daughter been treating you today?" He leaned over to kiss the swollen belly beneath his hand. A tiny foot kicked his face, making him straighten with a grin.

"She's almost as active as her brother. I'm thinking your suggestion of 'Ailidh' for her second name might have some merit after all. If she keeps this up, _my_ suggestion for a name is going to be 'The Tiny Terror of Transha'!"

The Chief of Transha roared with laughter. "'The Tiny Terror of Transha' is a bit long for a first name, love. I'm afraid you'll need to think of another." He gave Cat a roguish smile as he pulled her closer to trail a series of light kisses down her exposed throat. "I know it's rather late, but would you mind if I nibble on my overripe fruit a bit?" Practiced fingers tugged at the drawstring to her night-rail.

"Before I explode from the summer heat?" she joked, turning slightly towards him in mute assistance.

He slid the silky garment off her shoulders. "Mm. I think I can think of more pleasant ways to make you explode."

"Oh? Well, maybe you should show me," she challenged with a teasing smile.

His wife's clear green eyes darkened with pleasure as he proceeded to do just that.

#

_ April 12_

_ Southern Autun_

The more he thought the matter through, the more doubts and second-thoughts Nikos was beginning to have about their plan.

"You know I support your claim, Your Grace. But maybe we need more time. We could rally more support for the cause that we have now, put together an army and a fleet, wait until a more propitious time to launch our invasion..."

Teymuraz raised an incredulous eyebrow at Nikos the Impatient's sudden reversal. "A more propitious time? Nikos, do you not understand? In less than a month, a fever will be spreading throughout the Kingdom of Gwynedd. With any luck, it will even cross over the mountain range into Torenth; one can hope, anyway. All I'm asking of you is one small favor—to kill a man. It's not so hard, Nikos! You've done so many times before. And I'm not even sending you in to do it alone." He gave the liegeman a cruel smile. "Besides which, don't worry about my other resources. I assure you, I _do_ have them, even if I've not mentioned them and they've not made themselves known to you. Just because I've entrusted you with _part _of my plan, that doesn't mean you know the whole. But it's best that way, no? What you don't know, you can't possibly reveal."

"Of course. But you're asking me to take myself and my men into the heart of Gwynedd, into Kelson's Court, to catch a Haldane King unaware—and yes, I know he's only half-Deryni, but I wouldn't underestimate Kelson's power, nor those of his half-breed Dukes. Men have done so far too often, to their everlasting regret. Even if we succeed in our mission, what guarantee do we have of getting back out to enjoy the fruits of our success? If we do not die by magic or the sword, what of the plague?"

Teymuraz shrugged. "Come, Nikos, don't turn craven on me. What, is the promise of Arjenol—once Matyas's head lies dripping in my hands—not enough for you? Or, if you'd rather not wait that long, the Duchy of Corwyn?"

"What good is a Duchy if I'm not alive to enjoy it?"

The Grand Duke steepled his fingers in annoyance. "Well, if you wish to stay alive long enough to _enjoy_ it, then that should be ample motivation to stay alive, yes?" He gave his liegeman a tight-lipped smile. "_If _you should die in my service, then I assure you that your heir shall be well cared for until he is old enough to take up his duties as Duke of whichever Duchy you decide shall be your legacy for him. But oh, my friend, if you should _live_! Think of the glory that shall be yours on that day, when we make our triumphant re-entry into Rhemuth with the full strength of my supporters behind us!" The cruel smile grew. "That is, if you're not too cowed to pit three formally trained Deryni against a few mere half-breeds and their Haldane mongrel. You'll not even have Duchess Richenda to contend with; my eyes in Corwyn have assured me she's in residence at Coroth right now. And the Cassani Duke's Llyrian mare is waddling with his spawn; she'll be little threat so close to her time. With luck, she'll be heaving bloody bile by the time you make your move." Teymuraz grinned, clapping Nikos on the back. "All you have to do is kill Kelson. It needn't be elegant; it just needs to be final. I don't care how. If you don't want to confront him, do it covertly. Just make it happen. Let _me_ worry about the rest."

#

_ April 15_

_ Tre-Arilan_

_How are you feeling, love? _Seisyll's blue-violet eyes smiled at Sophie in her dream-vision.

_Well enough. The morning sickness is beginning to subside. I might decide to join you in Rhemuth; the mosquitoes are eating us alive here!_

_ They're not any better in Rhemuth,_ Seisyll informed her. _And I was planning to return home tomorrow anyhow. Shall I bring anything back for you? A book or two, mayhap?" _He grinned. _Boy-Priest and Heartthrob send their love._

Sophie gave a mental snort. _John's a little old for you to be calling him 'Boy-Priest' anymore, don't you think? And Duncan is _not _my heartthrob!_

Her husband's image grinned unrepentantly at her. _Not anymore. I do believe I've managed to cure that. But if you need a reminder about celibacy's drawbacks..._

_ Seisyll Arilan, if I were living with Duncan McLain and not with you, at least I'd get some _sleep!

Seisyll roared with laughter over his shiral crystal. _All right, then. I won't wake you when I get home. Poor sweeting; am I really that insatiable?_

_ Yes! _Dreaming Sophie pondered what she might need from Rhemuth. _You could bring back several smudge pots and some gauze cloth or veiling. Nothing expensive, just enough to serve as bed drapes to keep out mosquitoes. I've taken to setting up wards around the beds, but it's a bit of an energy drain, doing that night after night, and I can't exactly keep them inside wards during the day!_

_ I suppose not, though it sounds like a splendid idea. I might try that myself. God knows I'm tired of the last thing I hear at night being some infernal insect buzzing about my head! But yes, I'll see what I can do about finding those supplies for you._

_#_

_ April 25_

_ Transha Keep_

"All set then, son?" Sir Judd MacArdry clapped his heir on the shoulder as Sir Jass checked the girth on his wife's saddle once more time.

"Aye, we're headin' out. Any message ye wish me tae bring tae th' MacArdry?"

Sir Judd shook his head, smiling up at his daughter-in-law, who sat on her mount with her youngest child swaddled and in a sling worn in front of her. "Nay, jus' tell Dhugal we'll tend tae things till he gets back. Ailidh _mo nighean_, wouldnae ye an' th' bairn be more comfortable in a coach or cart?"

Sir Jass snorted. "It's nae use, Da. I've already tried tae tell her, but she insists she an' th' babe will hae a smoother ride on a horse rather than behind one."

The older knight shrugged. "Well, she might be right. But Ciaran an' Aine Rose..."

"Oh, _they're_ in the coach with their nurse," Ailidh assured her father-in-law. "And I've told Jass I'll join them if I get too tired to ride. Which I _won't_," she added with a pointed look at her husband.

"Aye, Da, when she gets tae puttin' on Rhemuth airs and goes back tae her Court talk, ye know she means business."

"Jass MacArdry, I dinnae put on Court airs!" Ailidh corrected, her gray-green eyes flashing fire.

"Except for when she's _so _mad, she lapses back into Border talk again," Jass added with a grin at his father.

Sir Judd MacArdry laughed. "I know better than tae comment. Safe travels!" He smiled fondly up at daughter-in-law, reaching up to her as she leaned over for a quick embrace, then he drew his son into a farewell hug. "I'll call yer Ma; I know she'll want tae say goodbye tae th' weans, if no' ye two quarrelsome lovebirds," he added with a wink. "She's still right worried about ye leavin' sae soon, wi' Jarrett bein' sae young an' Ailidh barely recovered."

"I need to get back to Rhemuth. It's almost time for Duchess Catriona's lying-in, and I promised to help her through it and also to help keep Duncan Michael busy," Ailidh told him. "She had a long labor with him, you know, though hopefully this one will be shorter."

"Well, tha's all well an' good, lass, but dinnae get sae caught up in carin' for th' MacArdry's lady, ye forget tae care for yerself as well. Dhugal doesnae need _two_ ladies on his hands expirin' from exhaustion!" He turned. "I'll go get Ma, then."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_ May 2, 1132_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

"My Prince, we have multiple reports of contagion spreading through the Kingdom. The epidemic is believed to have started at the Port of Desse, since most of the stricken have come from that area, but there have been cases radiating outward from there, as far south as Concaradine and a few isolated cases extending as far north and east as Valoret." Seisyll's blue-violet eyes looked unusually grim as he regarded his King. "I think it would be best if we impose a quarantine on Rhemuth."

Kelson frowned thoughtfully. "What is the nature of the contagion?"

"It is some sort of fever-flux, Sire; by the accounts I've been getting back, it seems to be related in kind to the one that swept through the coastal areas in 1062, except this one seems to be a lot more lethal. It also appears to have two forms. In the milder form, it merely causes a high fever and a great deal of vomitus and flux for two or three days, but the patient recovers shortly thereafter."

The King's eyebrows rose. "And in the more severe form?"

Seisyll's face grew even more grim. "In the more severe form, the patient begins to exude blood in his sweat, and the vomitus and flux turn black. A yellow tinge may suffuse the skin and eyes. For many of those who contract the more severe form, death is inevitable."

Kelson's eyes met Araxie's, who had turned pale. He turned back to his agent. "Yes, notify the Guard that the City is to be placed under immediate quarantine. Also send word—using methods besides face-to-face contact whenever possible—that quarantine is to be imposed on Desse, Concaradine, and the other affected towns. I want the Port closed. Ships can dock at Nyford or detour to the coastal ports to unload their cargoes, and then arrange to convey their goods overland." He breathed out heavily. "Jesú, we don't need this!"

"No, we most assuredly don't. But we have it nonetheless."

#

_ May 8_

_ Coroth Castle_

"Your Grace, I'm afraid to say the prognosis is not good."

Master Randolph watched with sympathy as Duchess Richenda sank onto a chair, her deep blue eyes shuttered with pain. "But...Kelric was sick for only two days, but now he's clearly on the mend! How is Briony's case different?"

"Her fever-flux has progressed to the more severe form of the contagion. At this point, her chances of survival decrease rapidly with each passing day." Seeing the tears shimmering in the Duchess of Corwyn's eyes, he added hastily, "Not that the prospect is hopeless! Even of those who contract this form of the flux, roughly half have pulled through, although the recovery time is longer. Briony has the advantage of being out of her earliest years of infancy, not to mention she was in excellent health before this outbreak. Those factors will play in her favor. But...I don't wish to give you false hope."

Richenda nodded, pressing her lips tightly together. "All right, then," she whispered. "So, what treatment is recommended?"

The physician sighed. "There are two schools of thought on the matter, I'm afraid, and this outbreak is still too fresh for me to know for certain which form of treatment would be most efficacious. The traditional treatment for a fever-flux of this sort would be bleeding and purging, to rid the body of the toxins that are causing the illness until the body can return to its natural balance of humours. It is thought that the reason the fever-flux causes the bloody sweats and black vomitus and flux is that the body is trying to purge itself of an excess of blood and black bile, and that helping it along in this task will cause the body to recover more quickly. A less conventional treatment, but one which I have personally found to be more helpful with other diseases, is to do the exact opposite—keeping the patient as hydrated as possible to replace the fluids the patient has already lost, until the illness can run its natural course and the body can restore its own balance."

"I see." Richenda pondered her sleeping daughter, whose fever-flushed face had been turned to one side to decrease the chances of her choking on her own vomit in case another gastric spasm should overcome her before she regained consciousness. "Would it even be possible to get fluids into her safely, now that she's reached this stage?"

"Oh, most certainly, whenever she's awake. She has her more lucid moments between the delirium-dreams. As long as we can keep her conscious enough of the time, we can get fluids into her."

The cornflower eyes fixed on his. "And that is the treatment you would recommend?"

Master Randolph sighed. "It is the treatment I would prescribe for myself, Your Grace, but even so, that is no guarantee."

She nodded, closing her eyes, wishing Alaric were there to help her sort through all of the ramifications of the difficult decision. At last she opened them.

"We'll try it your way. In the meantime, how can I protect the other children?"

The physician shrugged, looking helpless. "Kelric has already had the mild form; it's unlikely he can catch it again. Grania is at highest risk. I would keep the two completely separated, even now that Kelric is on the mend, until he has been symptom-free for a full week. No, let's make it two, just to ensure there's no chance of a relapse. As for prevention, though..." He shook his head. "We don't really know for certain what is causing it, my Lady, so it's hard to say what would help, aside from the usual common-sense measures. Avoid public gatherings until the outbreak has run its course."

"I wish I knew how Brendan is doing in Marley. I don't suppose there's a safe way to get a message to him?"

"Not without breaking quarantine, unless you Deryni have some other way to communicate over distances that won't involve sending a messenger through fever-infested lands."

She sighed. "There _are_ ways, but I shall have to wait until late tonight to try, I suppose." The Duchess paced. "And I've not heard any word from Alaric since I ordered the quarantine on Coroth; I hope my message got through." She turned to face the physician. "Do you think a quick hop through the Transfer Portal to Rhemuth would be safe, if only for a few minutes?"

Randolph shook his head. "I wouldn't risk it, my Lady. You're showing no signs of the contagion yourself, but you've been close to Kelric and Briony, and...well..."

"You're probably right. But in that case...Grania..." Fear shone in the mother's eyes again. "I've been with her daily...Should I stop?"

Master Randolph sighed. "There are no clear answers, my Lady."

#

_ May 15_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

Seisyll Arilan's brother visited him in a dream. _Sophie has taken ill. Do _not_ return to Tre-Arilan at this time!_

Alarm spread through the King's agent, nearly awakening him, though he fought down the panic, fought to maintain the tenuous mind link connecting him to Sextus. _Haw bad off is she? _Sweet Jesú, let it only be the mild form of the fever-flux…that, or something else entirely!

_So far, not so bad. She can't hold anything in, but there hasn't been any sign of black bile yet, nor of the blood-sweats or yellow pallor. _Sextus gazed at his brother through his shiral, the blue-violet eyes so similar to Seisyll's own filled with sorrow and compassion. _She began her labor last evening, however, and the babe bled out. There was no time to fetch a midwife, and in any case, I doubt we could have found one willing to attend to her while she has the fever. The people are fearful..._

Dream-Seisyll nodded. He could hardly blame them, although a brief surge of helpless rage swept through him regardless.

_ We have sent the children to Javana's home for their safety. Jashana remains to tend to Sophie's more personal needs, except for the lifting when the chambermaids have to change out the sheets._ _I supply that. _Sextus's face regarded him haggardly through the crystal. _I'm sorry we weren't able to do more._

Seisyll pushed down a wave of grief. _You did what you could. Thank you. _He paused. _Stay safe,_ he finally added, not knowing what else to say, not knowing if it would even be possible. _Any word from Denis?_

_ He's in good health, so far, but Dhassa is inundated, and he dares not return to Tre-Arilan just yet. He suggests praying for an early frost._

_ Why an early frost?_

_ Because in fever plagues of this sort, he says, they've often tended to die away shortly after the first or second frost of autumn._

Seisyll considered this new information. It might bring some glimmer of hope, however small, to Kelson, though autumn was still long months away.

Four months, at the very least, until the first frost. Dear God, how many thousands or tens of thousands would fall victim to this outbreak throughout the Kingdom before it ran its course? Already there had been fresh reports from as far west as the Connaiti coast, as far north as Cassan and the Purple March. Richenda, he'd later found out, had closed the Port of Coroth nearly as soon as Kelson had closed down Desse and the Free Port of Concaradine—within mere hours after the first set of quarantines had been imposed. It seemed odd to him that the outbreak would have spread from two different sources, but even now the eastern end of the Kingdom was becoming as affected as the western half. There were even rumors it had crossed through the mountain passes and up the river into western Torenth, and that it had begun to harry the Hort of Orsal's Court and western Tralia.

None of this mattered to Seisyll as much in that moment as his own wife's safety.

Tears gathered in his eyes, leaked onto his pillow even as he dreamt.

_Tell Sophie I love her, and that I'll come home to her as early as I may._

_ She knows already. _

#

_ Rhemuth Castle_

_ June 1_

Dhugal MacArdry McLain swept his kinswoman into a fierce embrace as he met her outside the door to his apartment. "Ailidh!" His amber eyes swept over her in concern. "I'm glad you're doing better. Jass said you'd only been lightly affected, but still, Cat and I were quite worried."

"If that was a light case, I never want to see a heavy one." Ailidh assured him. "Though the Royal Physician says that there's little danger of me catching it again, thank God!"

"Thanks be to God for that!" Dhugal startled his friend with a rare kiss on her cheek, then pulled back, one hand reaching for the door handle. "Come on in; Cat will be delighted to see you! She's missed you this past fortnight. You and Jass had barely even gotten settled back in at Court, it seemed, before you took ill."

"Aye. I've felt better for the past week, but I didn't want to risk seeing her too early, for fear I might not be as recovered from it as I felt."

Dhugal opened the door, stepping aside to allow Ailidh to enter first. The apartment was quiet, the usual murmur of voices and laughter strangely absent.

"Catriona?"

After a moment, the familiar voice called. "In here." Dhugal breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he glanced at Ailidh, then walked towards the bedchamber.

"I'm…a little tired." Cat turned from the open apartment window, smiling a bit wanly. "I asked Mhairi to take Duncan Michael to the fish pond." She saw Ailidh and brightened. "Oh, you didn't say you'd brought Ailidh!"

Ailidh took a few steps into the room, then stopped short with a slight frown. "My Lady, you're looking quite flushed. Are you unwell?"

Cat shook her head slowly. "It's just the summer heat. I was trying to catch a stray breez—" Green eyes widened in alarm, focusing past Ailidh, then suddenly the Duchess bolted away from the window, running to a nearby wash-basin to bend over it, violently ill.

"Sweet Jesu, Dhugal!" Ailidh turned frightened gray-green eyes towards the Duke. "You have to leave. You have to leave _now_!" Her hands pushed frantically at him, trying to shove him back out the chamber door. He was having none of it, his amber eyes kindling with alarm as he tried to sidestep past his interfering kinswoman to get to his stricken wife.

"_I'll _take care of her; I've _had_ it already!" Ailidh protested, grabbing double-fistfuls of his clothing as he shoved her aside. "Kelson can't spare you! The King can't..."

"The King bloody well _will_ spare me!" Dhugal retorted, lunging past her to get to Catriona's side. "My _wife_ needs me more."

Catriona took a step back from him, her crystal green eyes huge in her pale face. "_No_, Dhugal!" Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but all of the force of her formidable will was in it. "_Duncan Michael_ needs you most. He can't afford to have both a mother _and_ a father fall ill at once."

She gave him a trembling smile in an attempt to reassure him; raised a hand to ward him off. "Go, my love!" Her gaze wandered towards Ailidh. "We'll be fine. And it may just be a passing nausea, or my labor come a few weeks early, not the fever-flux at all."

Dhugal, studying his wife's flushed face and the glazed look in her eyes, knew this was not the case, but he could find no way to refute her logic despite his wish to remain with her. At last he turned away, anguished eyes capturing Ailidh's heartsick gaze.

"I'll want regular reports, even if you have to mind-alter the entire bloody Quarantine Guard to get them to me," he told her, tears standing in his eyes.

"You'll have them," she whispered, gently ushering him out. "And she could be on the mend in just a few days, even as I was. If she goes into labor, the babe's even old enough to survive. Don't worry overmuch, Dhugal."

He nodded, looking past her for another glimpse at his wife. Catriona smiled, waiting until the door had closed behind him before reaching for the wash-basin again and succumbing to another violent wave of nausea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_ June 4, 1132_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

At the end, even the Quarantine Guard at Rhemuth had not proved sufficient to the task of keeping Duke Dhugal MacArdry McLain from his wife's bedside in her final hours of life. A consultation with the Royal Physicians had confirmed for Kelson's assurance—or lack thereof—that in their observations thus far, simple proximity to a stricken victim did not seem to play any part in determining if an individual would contract the fever-flux or not. The downside of this hopeful news, on the other hand, was that none of the quarantine measures that had been put into effect seemed to have made the slightest degree of difference in the contagion's spread, either. Many of those who had kept themselves in strictest isolation still seemed to contract the fever-flux and either survive the full course of the disease or die, while those tending to the stricken or taking their bodies away for burial seemed to have no greater likelihood of falling ill than the next person.

Catriona had progressed to the more severe stages of the fever-flux, often delirious, her body racked with frequent spasms in its attempt to purge itself of the black bile, and then more often than not falling into blissful unconsciousness after each violent bout. But whenever she awoke, she was often lucid for anywhere from a few minutes to a couple of hours at a time, before her fever would rise perilously high again to start the cycle anew.

And now her water had broken, the contractions coming in full force, yet despite the urgings of the midwife, Dhugal refused to leave his wife's side again, not wishing to lose any more precious moments of what little time might yet remain with the woman who had captured his heart.

Cat gripped his hand tightly. "Promise me that you'll remarry," she whispered through fever-parched lips as the force of one contraction subsided. "Duncan Michael is still so young…so much could happen. He will need brothers."

Dhugal buried his face in her hair. "I can't bear to think of that right now, _a chuisle_." He raised his head slightly, kissed her brow. "Besides, I still _have_ a wife. I have a bonny wife who's a fighter, who never surrenders."

"Aye, I do give a good fight, don't I?" She chuckled slightly, the effort causing a deep cough, which nearly stirred up another bout of retching, although she fought back the reflex. "I don't always win though, love. _You_ know that." Another contraction spasmed through her, stealing her ability to speak or even think for the next few moments while she focused on riding it out. In that, at least, Dhugal was able to lend his powers to offer some relief, focusing his energies in helping to blunt the edge of the pain.

Once the contraction subsided, Catriona turned her clear green eyes, their irises now surrounded by a tinge of yellow, up to her husband again. "Ailidh has milk enough for two, if our daughter survives me. She's already offered..."

"Hush, sweeting. Save your strength." He turned desperate eyes towards the midwife, moving towards the foot of the sickbed to whisper. "How far along in her labor is she?"

"Not far enough along, Yer Grace," the midwife whispered back. "It would've helped if she'd been strong enough tae sit on th' birthing stool, or better yet, walked about a bit first, but wi' her lyin' abed, 'tis progressin' more slowly."

"And the baby?" Dhugal asked, almost afraid to hear her answer.

"Still movin', though weaker now." The midwife shook her head. "I cannae say which will hold out longer." She lowered her voice a trace more. "If the mother dies, I can try tae save the babe if she's still livin', but I'd have tae be quick about it, an' there's no guarantees tha' I could. An' she may well have th' fever-flux too, poor wee bairn, just like her mam."

Dhugal nodded in acknowledgment, swallowing hard. "Just…do whatever you can."

The end, when it came, came swiftly. One moment, Catriona lay back against the pillow, her husband sitting by her side ready to ease the next contraction, for they were coming in strong steady waves now, with barely any respite between them. Then her eyes widened, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and Dhugal sensed the cause for her distress, signaling for the chambermaid to bring the freshly rinsed wash-basin, raising his wife up to an almost sitting position. Catriona retched up the bloody vomitus once, twice, then her body stiffened as another contraction ripped through her body.

When this one subsided, her body lay unnaturally still, only the shallow rise and fall of her breath and the too-rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat indicating life. And then she gave a quiet gasp, her lungs filling with air for one last time as her body arched backwards, convulsing momentarily, then lay completely still.

The room froze, no one able to move or even speak for one long moment, then it exploded with activity. Dhugal, completely numb, felt strong arms grasp him by the shoulders and turn him away, leading him from the room, although he felt as though he were watching it happen to some other man, some man completely outside of himself, for _he_ wasn't here, watching his love, his life, expire before his eyes. There was the frantic sound of the midwife's voice, issuing orders in a voice pitched higher than he'd heard it earlier, taut with tears, but he could make no sense of her words' meaning, nor of the other, higher pitched wail he heard several moments later. There was only the numbness of death, the darkness of the grave threatening to fill his vision as someone sat him down gently on a chair, murmuring words that he supposed were meant to comfort, if only they were in a language he could comprehend. At that moment, all he could understand was pain, fierce and keen, ripping through him like a sword, the only edge of feeling in his otherwise sense-dulled world. And then another voice nearby, and someone holding a cup to his lips. After that, he felt nothing at all.

#

Alaric Morgan stood in the doorway to Duncan's study. He didn't say the words. He didn't have to. Duncan took one look at his expression and knew all, his own face turning ashen.

"Catriona?"

Alaric nodded, his gray gaze filled with sympathy. Duncan closed his eyes. "Dhugal?"

Alaric entered the room, taking a chair next to his cousin. "Sleeping. He was given a draught; he probably won't wake until the morning."

Duncan nodded dully. "That's probably for the best. And Duncan Michael?"

"Still in Lady Mhairi's keeping. And your granddaughter lives, for now at least. Lady Ailidh has her."

A brief light in Duncan's blue eyes as he opened them. "The baby survived?"

"Yes. She's weak, and two weeks early, but she looks to be a fighter."

The faintest glimmer of a smile, as tears filled Duncan's eyes. "Yes, she's Catriona's child. She would be. Daughter of warrior queens." His voice broke with the last words. Alaric rose quietly, walking over to the bookshelf, rummaging at the back of it until he found what he was looking for, the bottle of MacRorie's Old his cousin usually kept on hand there. He poured a glass, walking over to place it gently in Duncan's hand. Duncan sipped absently, his attention clearly elsewhere.

"Does Corin know yet?" The fifteen-year-old Corin, Hereditary Lord of Llyr and Catriona's nephew, was currently serving as squire to King Kelson. "Or High Lord Michael?"

"Kelson notified Corin a half hour ago. Corin will be returning to Llyr to break the news to his father."

"I should go...There'll be duties...a funerary Mass to make ready for..."

Alaric put a hand on his cousin's shoulder and pushed him back into the chair as he started to rise. "You should do nothing of the sort!" He tapped the glass in Duncan's hand with a fingernail. "Drink that."

#

_June 8_

_ Coroth Castle_

Richenda looked up from the accounts in surprise, which rapidly turned to joy as her husband walked into the room. "Alaric!" Joy immediately turned into worry. "You shouldn't be here, it's not safe! The plague is still in Coroth; we're under quarantine..."

He lifted a hand to stop the flow of words. "Yes, it's still in Rhemuth too." Alaric Morgan swept his wife into a fierce embrace, holding her close for a long while as if he never wanted to let her go, though eventually he stepped back again, looking down into her cornflower blue eyes. "I have missed you so much! It's been so difficult, being stuck in Rhemuth, not knowing what was happening here. Is everyone...are the children...?" The words stuck in his throat, lodged there by the fear of what her answer might be.

Her eyes filled with tears. "We're fine. We're all well...now." She smiled up at him, blinking away the moisture that obscured the precious sight of her husband, home at last and safe. "Kelric had a mild form of the fever-flux but was over it within a couple of days. Briony..." She buried her face in Alaric's shoulder. "Briony's case was far more severe, but her fever finally broke after five days, and she's on the mend now. She's still a bit pale and weak, but this week she's started feeling up to playing in the garden again. Grania and the twins haven't caught it, thank God!"

Alaric cradled Richenda in his arms, stroking her red-gold hair. "And you've not?"

"I haven't." She leaned back slightly to study his face. "And you?"

He shook his head. "No. But the outbreak is bad in Rhemuth and the surrounding area." The gray eyes were bleak. "Dhugal's wife died four days ago." Richenda gasped slightly. Alaric tightened his hold on her, burying his face in her hair. "I was all right up until that happened. I think I was just so busy, it was easier not to let myself imagine what might be happening here. I wouldn't have been allowed to return any earlier, in any case. But after _that _death hit so close to home, I couldn't stay away any longer."

"But the quarantine...?" Richenda turned worried eyes up to her husband. "Won't Kelson...?"

Alaric stopped her question with a shake of his head. "He lifted it himself, or relaxed it slightly, at any rate. It doesn't seem to be having much of an effect at all." He paused, a sudden thought striking him. "Or is it different here? Has the quarantine helped at all? Maybe if we were doing something different..."

His Duchess shook her head. "No, we've not noticed much of a difference either. Staying indoors with all the windows tightly closed might make a small difference, but then we see people falling over from heat prostration." She had a sudden thought. "Master Randolph is treating his patients by trying to get fluids down them as much as possible rather than bleeding and purging them. From what I've seen, more of his patients are surviving than the ones going through the more conventional treatments. You might want to let the physicians in Rhemuth know."

"I will." Alaric studied his wife, almost afraid to ask his next question for fear of adding to her worries, but then he decided she would be in a better position to know the answer—for better or for worse—than he'd been in the past few months, and if the news were bad, she'd have told him already. "Have you had any news from Brendan in Marley yet?"

Fire flashed in her eyes. "Oh, yes! He came down with the fever-flux quite early on, and he didn't bother to tell me until he was completely over it! He said he 'didn't want to worry me!'" Indignation suffused her features.

Alaric found himself caught between a similar annoyance, chagrin, and wry amusement. Amusement slowly won. He gave his wife a rueful grin. "I probably would've done the same." He held up his hand before she could start her protests. "If you'd known, would you have gone to him?"

"Well..." Richenda suddenly looked torn, knowing what her duty would've been as Corwyn's Duchess, yet also knowing where she would have wanted to be as Brendan's mother.

"Exactly. Why put you in that position of having to choose? Besides which, he wouldn't have wanted to risk giving the fever-flux to you, would he? He made a man's choice. And one which must have been extremely difficult for him, if you think about it. He's still boy enough to have wanted the comfort of having his mother nearby." He chuckled. "_I've_ desperately wanted the comfort of having you nearby, but for different reasons entirely."

"I'm nearby now," she said softly.

"So you are." He brushed a tender kiss across her lips. "I very much want to see our children, and Kelson has only released me for a brief visit, though _you_ can also visit Rhemuth now if you wish and if the situation here permits. But for now, can we go to our chamber? I very much need my wife."

"And I've needed you rather desperately as well." She stroked his cheek, drinking in every precious feature with her eyes. "I'll let the household know we're not to be disturbed."

#

_ June 19_

_ De Nore estate, near Nyford_

In a palatial home just outside of Nyford, another woman with a young son lay dying.

"It's God's curse upon the Deryni that has brought this plague to the Kingdom!" she raged weakly, her fingers plucking at the fine linen sheets she lay upon, sheets stained with her own blood and wastes, for most of her household had fled except for one frail old chambermaid too weak to shift her patient and change the soiled linens. The chambermaid privately wondered, if this was so, why God had such very bad aim. Surely, had He meant to smite only the Deryni and those who supported their magical race, He might have chosen His targets more carefully than to deal mortal illness to a de Nore!

But there was little time for such theological ponderings at the moment, for the Lady Alienora was at that moment purging herself of bile more literal than verbal. The chambermaid sighed, picked up a damp rag, and began to clean her up again.

A small boy whimpered in the doorway. "I'm hungry!"

"Not now, Ollie," the chambermaid said in a weary voice. "Your Maman can't spare me at the moment." She stepped slightly to one side, hoping to block his view of her patient. "There's bread and cheese left in the kitchens. Stay clear of the hearth." She was sure the fires would have long since died down, but there might still be an ember or two to burn small hands, and she did not wish to be held responsible if the young master were careless.

Alienora swooned briefly, but just as the chambermaid was beginning to hope the long ordeal might be over, she recovered, her fever-bright blue eyes fixing upon the woman caring for her. "The King will rue the day he repealed the Statutes of Ramos! God's wrath will be visited upon the Haldanes to the third and fourth generations!" Her eyes darted around the room, falling upon her young son, a scant two months short of his sixth birthday, still standing in the doorway, mouth agape. "Ollie, darling," she whispered, her voice softening. "Come to Maman, poppet."

The child stared wide-eyed at her, afraid to move, but more afraid to disobey. At last he lurched forwards, his little feet taking him a few steps further into the room.

"You must promise me, Ollie, that you will always be a good boy, and that you will love the Lord your God, and that someday you will do your part to rid this land of the Deryni taint. Can you promise that, Ollie?"

Young Oliver Septimus Ranulf de Nore de Varnay nodded, not at all comprehending what his mother was ranting about, only understanding that it was something about the Deryni, and that Deryni were evil. He didn't know why; it was something about fire and evil magics and consorting with demons, but aside from that, he wasn't even sure what they were. The library in this home of his mother's ancestors was a good one, but if there were picture books showing what these minions of Satan looked like, he had never seen them. But he knew the monstrous Deryni, whatever they might be, were evil. His mother had always said so, and she would never lie to him about such a thing. She was good, and good people didn't lie.

"They're the Devil's spawn, Ollie, the Devil's spawn," she whispered. "But God will wipe them and their wicked taint from the face of the land. It's only a matter of time." A crazed smile widened cracked lips. "You will know them by their works, Ollie." The smile vanished, replaced by the fires of Hell blazing in her eyes. "When you are a man grown, send as many as you can back to their diabolical Maker, my darling, my dove! Do this in remembrance of me."

Her voice went silent, though long after she breathed her last and the chambermaid wrapped her in the waste-soaked sheets and went to summon a burial-cart, young Ollie heard its echo lingering in his mind.

#

_ June 28_

_ Bremagne_

At the end of June, after the plague had been given several months to wreak havoc throughout the Kingdom of Gwynedd, a small craft set sail, heading across a narrow stretch of the Atalantic Ocean towards the distant coast of that besieged land. It was sailed by men who would ask no questions, and who would set sail for any destination in exchange for enough coin.

The hired sailors were paid well to sail forth, paid more to keep silence. Nikos von Brustarkia was still trying to decide if they should be paid even more to remain docked near Rhemuth until the task he and his small group of hand-picked men had been sent to do was completed, to make their return home easier, or if it would be a greater advantage to kill them all upon arrival in Desse. It could be done discreetly, yet Nikos hated to waste such a resource if it might prove needful again. Then again, killing them would save on coin, and that was another resource Nikos hated to waste.

Mirjana and his heir Mikhail were not with him, of course. He would hardly risk his son's life, after all. The child was the delight of his eyes, his father's darling.

The woman... Well, she was beautiful, and fruitful enough—she'd proven it to his satisfaction several times—and he had her fairly well trained by now. She was another resource he'd hate to waste needlessly, especially considering how much she had cost him already. He'd already killed once to gain her, and it had cost him far more than he'd dreamed. Had cost him his birthright due to outlawry.

He would gain it all back and more, of course, once he was Duke of Arjenol. Once he had his full reward for his support of Teymuraz the Bold.

And then, if she was not worthy of him, once he had all the women of his native Torenth to choose from, he would think about replacing her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_ July 12, 1132_

_ Tre-Arilan_

"Seisyll!" Sophie flung her arms around her husband's neck, clinging to him desperately for a few minutes before releasing him. He kept his own arms loosely encircling her waist, noting the dark shadows under her eyes in a face still too pale for his liking, although she looked a little better now that she had that first time he'd seen her after Kelson had relaxed the quarantine and he'd been allowed a brief visit home.

"How is he?" Seisyll asked, glancing in the direction of his brother's small set of rooms.

"Worse," Sophie told him, looking distressed. "Jashana's having trouble keeping fluids down him." She sighed. "And he keeps asking for the wrong sorts of fluids!"

Seisyll gave a reluctantly amused snort at that. "I can imagine. He's probably hoping that if he can get drunk, the fever-flux will somehow seem less unpleasant. Or at least he won't remember it afterwards. Typical Sextus thinking." He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "The children?"

A brief flash of pain in her green-gold eyes, quickly obscured by downcast lashes. "Stefania and Jamyl are still up north with Javana, and so far have remained safe. They have the fever-flux in the Kheldish Riding as well, but there seem to be fewer cases of it up there, at least in the high mountain areas." She didn't mention their third child—the second son they had hoped to have, miscarried as a result of her own recent illness. But she had other news. "Stefan contacted me last night in a dream-vision. He said that our stepmother succumbed to the fever-flux, and that he and Lisette have taken in our father's son as their own."

Seisyll's dark brows rose. "Alienora's son? How old would he be now?"

"Five. Almost six. And he's terrified of Deryni."

"Lovely." An ironic smile. "Has he figured out what Stefan and Lisette are yet?"

"Stefan says they think he doesn't know for sure yet, but that he's beginning to suspect something is different about them. They're hoping they can shift his thinking before they let him in on the secret, so he won't be in a blind panic once he finds out. Fortunately little Ranulf and Liesel haven't started using their own powers yet—at least not consciously—so hopefully Ollie will have a different perspective in a year or two."

Seisyll looked dubious. "His memories might need to be altered."

Sophie frowned. "Yes, but hopefully not." It was a mild bone of contention between them. Seisyll's ethical boundaries were more elastic than Sophie's, he had discovered over the years, and there were aspects of his job that bothered her more sensitive conscience.

"Fortunately, that's their decision to make, and not ours," he reminded her, and she relaxed again in his arms.

"True." She smiled up at him. "Are you hungry?"

"For food, no. For _you_, always, unless you're too tired." This time it was his turn to frown. "Actually, on second thought, you look exhausted. Why don't you go to bed, and I'll go tend to Sextus and give Jashana a rest." She looked startled at first, then sheepishly grateful. He chuckled. "Yes, that's what I thought." He kissed her brow. "Go get a good night's sleep, sweeting. I'll go see if I can get some broth into Sextus." Seisyll gave his wife a mischievous grin. "With just a hint of mental suggestion, maybe I can convince him it's Ballymar whisky."

#

_July 16_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

"My good man, would you happen to know what hour the bells just rang?"

The guard thought for a moment as he regarded the stranger, trying to recall if they had just finished pealing five times or six. He glanced up at the sky briefly to gauge how far the sun had traveled, and therefore didn't notice the other man approaching stealthily from behind him. The second man grabbed him from behind, one strong hand going over his mouth to keep him from calling out, the other hand holding his head from behind. The unseen attacker muttered a few low words in a strange tongue, and suddenly the guard grew still, eyes focused unseeingly at the man in front of him.

"There, that's much better," said the man in front. "Now, what entrance is this?"

"'Tis the supply entrance to the passage leading to the Royal Kitchens, my lord," came the man's reply, sounding oddly flat.

"Oh? Very good! And how many people are within at the moment?"

"In the Kitchens? I...don't know."

"Rough guess, then."

The guard continued to stare straight ahead. "Ten, maybe fifteen."

The two strangers looked at one another. The one behind shook his head. "Too many," he mouthed.

"And when foodstuffs are brought around to this entrance," the man in front continued, "how many of the cooks usually come out to inspect them and bring them in?"

A slight pause. "One...or two. At times three."

"Depends on how many are needed to carry the crates in?"

"Yes."

The two strangers glanced at each other again. This time the silent one gave a satisfied nod.

"All right, here's what I want you to do. When I count to three, you will go into the Kitchen and tell those cooks that there is a cart of...of turnips waiting for them outside. Afterwards, you will not remember this conversation or anything that has happened since I asked you the time; you will only remember speaking with the cart-driver. You will realize, once you have done this task, that you have a pressing need to visit the garderobe, and so you will be away from your post for a few minutes." He looked at the man holding the guard's head, who nodded agreement, adding a few embellishments of his own to the newly-created memory."

The guard nodded blankly.

"Good. One...two...three."

The guard turned on his heel, entering the kitchen door. After several minutes, another man came out, his face flushed.

"I didn't send for any damn turn-" Again, this man was silenced by the stranger behind him, who spoke for the first time, though only in his companion's mind.

_Would you prefer for me to kill and dispose of him, and then assume his shape and do this myself, or would you prefer to just implant the suggestion in his mind?_

The other man mused. _I think simply implanting the suggestion should work. It will be less direct involvement for us should anything go wrong, and would eliminate the risk of his body being discovered before we're done._

_ You're probably right. Give him the poison, then._

The man in front of the cook placed a small vial of powder in his hand, closing the unresisting fingers around it. "It's only saffron, my good man. The finest imported saffron, freshly shipped from the East. It will add more savor to the King's cuisine. You must make certain it reaches the dishes meant for the King's Table. Especially His Majesty's platter; I'm told saffron is most pleasing to his palate."

The cook nodded, his eyes blank.

"Good! You will remember nothing of this conversation. When I count to three, you will only remember..." He stopped to consider something plausible, then remembered the pretext for luring the cook outside in the first place. "You received a cart-load of turnips you hadn't sent for, and they were half spoiled, so you turned the carter away. You will go inside, and begin to prepare the dishes for the High Table, or for His Majesty's private table, if he is dining in private tonight. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The dark eyed man smiled in delight. "Very well, then! One...two...three..."

#

"We're peeling turnips, then?" a young scullery boy asked tiredly. His hands already ached from spending the past hour chopping and paring.

"Nay, they were half spoiled. And I never sent for the ruddy things anyway." The cook bustled past him, sparing a glance at the boy's handiwork. "Dice those a bit smaller, would you? They'll not have time to cook through, otherwise."

The boy sighed, but did as ordered. He risked a glance at another friend his age, who was standing by the meat spit, turning the handle to roast a brace of conies. Thankfully the meat was nearly done; his friend looked about ready to faint from the heat.

The cook went over to inspect the conies. "Give those another five minutes, then take them off the spit and serve them on platters along with the frumenty. Aedwina, how is the bread coming along?"

"All done, cooling in the pantry."

"Good. Jemmy, are you done with that dicing yet?"

The boy picked up the pace on his chopping. "Almost done."

Cook glanced at the spit again. "Corbin, on second thought, I think the conies are ready. Prick that one on the near end and check the juices."

"Yes, sir!" The other boy gladly left off turning the spit and found a long-handled meat fork, piercing the hot flesh, which dripped clear liquid onto the fire beneath. The drops sizzled.

"Good. Plate those."

Corbin complied. Jemmy finished the last of the vegetables and added them to the stewpot, then went to help his friend, ladling the frumenty onto the platters with the coneys and adding a bit of garnish to each one. Behind them, Cook added a sprinkle of some powdery spice to each dish.

"What's that, Cook?" Jemmy asked, glancing curiously at the man.

"Saffron," the man answered.

Jemmy exchanged a puzzled glance with Corbin. "But...saffron's yellow, sir! Golden-yellow, almost orangish."

The man simply shook his head, his eyes looking oddly glazed. "Nay. This be fine imported saffron, fresh shipped from the East." He continued to sprinkle each dish with the cinnamon-colored powder.

"It's sort of a dark rusty orange," Corbin whispered. "Maybe saffron looks different in the East?"

Jemmy shook his head slowly, staring at the cook. He touched the man's arm gingerly, ventured something he'd never risked trying before—not here, at any rate!-and then inhaled sharply. "Corbin, I think someone's ensorcelled him! Don't ask me how I know, but...this is the food meant for the King's Table, isn't it?"

"Aye..." Corbin stared at him. "What's wrong, Jemmy?" On the other side of the kitchen, Aedwina and the other kitchen staff were also ceasing their work, looking at the boy oddly.

Jemmy stripped off his apron. "I have to warn someone! The King...or at least Prince Nigel..." He paused briefly, looking daunted, then summoned up his courage, although his brown eyes were wide with trepidation.

"But..." Corbin stared uncertainly at Cook, who continued sprinkling the powder on the final platter as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. "We're not allowed up in the Royal Apartments!"

Jemmy ran towards the Great Hall. "If I get sacked, I get sacked," he called back over his shoulder, "but there's _something_ wrong, and I have to try!"

#

The King, Prince Nigel, and Duke Alaric stood around a small table in a withdrawing room, along with one of the Royal Physicians. Before them stood a frightened boy in a stained work tunic.

"It's poisonous, all right," the physician confirmed, showing the other three men the results of his testing—a dead mouse, blood bubbling at its mouth and nostrils. The boy gulped.

Three pairs of gray eyes swiveled to the lad. "You did a fine job, son," Prince Nigel said approvingly. "Keen eyes and swift thinking." He sighed. "Now to discover how this happened."

The boy bit his lip, looking nervous. "I think...that is, I took the liberty of touching Cook's mind just the tiniest bit...I wouldn't _normally_, of course!...but the poison had to come from _somewhere_, and I think he might have been messed with. His mind, that is...Something about it felt…_wrong_ somehow. And he was acting all queer and all!"

Alaric Morgan nodded, looking grim. As Prince Nigel turned to give a couple of guard captains their orders to secure the Castle and start searching for intruders and interviewing any unfamiliar persons found on the grounds, the King's Champion told the King, "I do believe I'd like a chat with Cook myself."

The corners of Kelson's mouth turned up just slightly in a grim almost-smile as he studied the dead rodent. "_I _believe I may be off saffron for life." He turned to Alaric. "Do you realize what day this is?"

Morgan shook his head; nothing of significance was occurring to him.

"It's the fourth anniversary of Liam-Lajos's Coronation, if I'm remembering correctly. Not that I suspect _him_, of course, but as you'll recall, there's a loose thread or two left hanging..."

The light dawned, and the golden-haired head nodded. "Poison would be Teymuraz's style, although..." Something, he wasn't sure what, wasn't quite adding up. Still, this could well have been done by an accomplice. "I'm even _more_ interested in meeting Cook now." He glanced down at Jemmy, giving the boy a reassuring smile. "And under the circumstances, you did exactly the right thing."

The King's full attention settled on the boy. "Indeed." The Haldane eyes studied the scullery lad curiously. "Tell me—Jemmy, was it?" The lad nodded, his brown eyes huge. Kelson's smile, a more genuine one this time, grew. "Are you wanting to be a cook yourself when you grow up?"

Jemmy looked slightly confused. "That's what I'm apprenticed for, Sire!"

"Yes, I suppose it is." Kelson chuckled quietly. "But...you're Deryni, aren't you?" It wasn't so much a question as a statement.

The boy nodded, looking nervous again. "Aye, m'lo...um...Your Majesty!" He flushed crimson.

Kelson nodded matter-of-factly. "'My Lord' is technically correct for any man of noble rank; a safe enough bet if you're ever unsure of what title to use. Tell me, Jemmy, have you any education? Aside from your apprenticeship, I mean?"

Jemmy looked more baffled. "I had a bit of dame school—learnt my letters and numbers, and a bit of reading. A little writing too, but not much. And sums."

The King nodded. "A decent enough start." He glanced at Nigel. "I'm very grateful to have had a Deryni in the Royal Kitchens today, but I'm thinking such valuable skills might be put to some more suitable occupation." He looked back at the lad. "If Jemmy is agreeable, that is. Or is your heart set on becoming a cook, Jemmy?"

"Is my..." His eyes became huge as his mind finally comprehended the offer. "Oh, _no_, Your Majesty! I _hate_ vegetables!"

The men laughed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_ Rhemuth Castle_

_ July 16, 1132_

The cook was outwardly cooperative when the King's Champion tried to interrogate him. It soon became evident, however, that he knew nothing of any plot against the King's life—or so he said, anyway—and once the evidence of the poisoned food was brought before him, he protested that the poison must have been added by some other hand, for he knew the dishes had not been tampered with when he'd prepared them. Even the discovery of the corked vial in his belt pouch, its glass sides still speckled with traces of the rusty-colored powder, had not served to jog his recollection. He insisted that it must have been placed in his pouch without his knowledge, in an attempt to frame him. His brow turned sweatier than usual with the introduction of this new evidence, however, for despite what his memories told him, he knew how incriminating it looked.

It was only when Morgan, trying to discover the cause for the discrepancies between what his Truth-Reading abilities told him the cook believed to be actual truth and what Morgan suspected the actual truth to be, offered to Mind-See the man that the cook began to resist in earnest, though to no avail. Two of the Haldane Guard, under instructions from Prince Nigel, held the cook steady as the Duke of Corwyn approached to lay a hand lightly on the man's brow. They had seen Duke Alaric do this on other occasions; knew that the simple power of Mind-Sight, in and of itself, would do the cook no harm, although it might strike fear into the hearts of those ignorant of what the limitations of Deryni powers were. Therefore, they weren't prepared when, upon Morgan's first cautious probe, the cook's body shuddered convulsively in their hold and then became limp, his frantic eyes widening briefly before their sightless gaze rolled back in his head.

Alaric Morgan muttered a blistering curse, pulling back briefly in sheer startlement. Beside him, Duke Dhugal added an epithet no less biting, stooping to catch the suddenly limp figure and assist the guards in laying him on the ground. Meeting Dhugal's eyes, Morgan plunged in again, this time with the other Deryni's assistance.

A few moments later, each backed out of the link, both men tight-lipped with anger and frustration.

"They covered their tracks well," Dhugal said, "but I got the impression there were at least two men, and I have a fair idea of one man's appearance. Did you get anything more than that?"

Morgan took a brief moment to sift through the scattered images he'd managed to gather from the man's dying consciousness. The death trigger had been carefully set, though, and devised in such as way as to scramble the man's most recent memories even as it took effect, so very few bits of useful information remained to sift through. "Dark hair and dark eyes, a close-trimmed beard on one man, and a hint of an accent. In one case, I'd say for certain he was Torenthi; in the other man's case...I'm just not sure." He looked up. "I have a vague impression of one man's facial features though." He sent Dhugal an image of the visage he had gleaned. It was an imprecise impression, but better than none.

"Yes, I caught that as well," Dhugal told him. He turned his gaze to the guards. "Shall we show you?"

Although this, too, was an offer the Haldane Guards had availed themselves of on other occasions, they looked at him rather nervously now, licking dry lips as they regarded each other. Dhugal, suddenly realizing the cause for their fear, attempted to reassure them. "What you saw happen to the cook was due to a Death-Trigger set by the assassins," he explained. "Since _you_ weren't tampered with, our touch won't harm you." He glanced at Morgan, then back at the guards. "Shall_ I_ show you instead?"

One guard, overcoming his brief nervousness, nodded, the other following suit once he saw his companion do so. Dhugal suppressed a rueful smile, wincing slightly as he turned away from the dead man's body to share the Torenthi assassin's likeness with the guards. _I'm the King's 'harmless' Deryni, Morgan. _You're_ the Deryni who can still scare the crap out of people without even half trying!_

_Next time I'll let _you_ do the first reading, and if the detainee falls dead, you'll get to be the scary Deryni,_ Morgan groused. _Thank God he didn't keel over when young Jemmy brushed up against his mind; _that_ would've scared the poor lad off using his powers for life! Not to mention we'd have missed getting even _this_ much information from the cook's memories. _His lips tightened. _I'd barely started a deeper probe when the Death-Trigger tripped, but damn it all, the man never stood a chance. _He turned to speak quietly to one of the other Haldane retainers. The man nodded, hurrying off to apprise the King of what had just happened.

#

To Dhugal's great surprise, one of the two guards _had _been tampered with, although fortunately the tampering had been done with somewhat less care, and no death-trigger had been set. Still, this time he managed to get a much clearer impression of the two intruders, especially the man who had been in front of the guard, which he passed on to Morgan.

A loud commotion from below-stairs captured their attention. Both Deryni cast out with their senses, trying to divine the cause, as all four men ran to see what was happening. Thus it was that, even before they'd reached the bottom of the flight of steps and turned the corner, they knew that strangers had been apprehended in the undervault area beneath Rhemuth Castle. Not mere strangers, but Deryni, who were even then putting up a fierce fight against the mostly human Haldane Guards.

The new arrivals rounded the corner to discover three strangers rather than two, backed into a corner of a large storeroom trying to fight their way to a rear exit close by. Surrounding them were the Haldane Guards, attempting to stop the intruders' flight without getting too close themselves, taking cover behind whatever crates and casks and support pillars stood handily nearby, for the Deryni were using blasts of fire as a defense against their human foes. One hapless Guard ventured too close; one of the Deryni made a grab for him with a free hand, perhaps intending to use him as a hostage, though the Guard realized his danger just in time to jerk his arm further back, so that the infiltrator only managed to grab his sleeve.

Another Guard yanked him away, his blue-violet eyes blazing as he pulled the man to safety. This second guard threw up a hand, muttering words under his breath in a voice quiet yet fierce as he drew a line between the Deryni and the human Guards, and a wall of crackling flame rose up to separate them, the ends of the fiery wall spreading around to form a semi-circle neatly penning the Deryni intruders in. This was Seisyll Arilan, Morgan saw, and he looked pissed as seven hells. Seeing the rest of the Haldane Guards' reactions to this unexpected development, he thought he knew why.

Morgan and Dhugal sprinted through the storeroom to join him. _Not bad,_ Morgan commented to Seisyll via Mind-Speech. _Not bad at all. Tell me, though, have you never bothered to tell the rest of your company that you're Deryni?_

Seisyll's eyes snapped fire. _It's a little more difficult to remain discreet and unnoticed in one's undercover investigative work if the entire bloody Kingdom knows you're Deryni!_

Morgan chuckled even as he reached the other man's side. _Well, maybe we can help limit that to only half the Kingdom, then. Is Denis going to crap bricks?_

_ Undoubtedly. Until he finds out _why_ I revealed myself, anyway. _Must_ you remind me?_

By this time, Dhugal had reached Seisyll's other side. The Haldane Guard retreated to the periphery, securing all exits and standing in readiness to assist if called upon, watching the scene unfolding before them intently, but glad enough to leave Deryni assassins to other Deryni.

#

The fighting was fierce and quick. By the time the King arrived, it was over.

Morgan, his hair somewhat singed and his face slightly pink from a near blast, though otherwise mostly unscathed, knelt over a prone form, attempting to apply his Healing powers so that the man whose life was ebbing away before him could be spared long enough for a trial and execution. Seisyll and Dhugal also knelt beside the other two fallen.

"This one will live," Seisyll said, his fingers clamped lightly on the man's pulse, "though we'll have to wait before we can get any information out of him, unless you want me to try to verbally interrogate him before we resort to using powers." A feral smile. "Which I quite look forward to doing."

"What the hell _was_ that thing you used on yours?" Dhugal asked Seisyll, pausing for a brief moment while his mind absorbed the flow of information he had gleaned from the unconscious man before him.

"Merasha dart. He was expecting me to return magical attack with magical attack, so I thought it best to disappoint him." The corners of Seisyll's lips turned upwards slightly in grim satisfaction.

Dhugal edged over to see if he could assist Morgan in his task, but at that moment the fallen man's body shuddered convulsively and he breathed his last. Grimly determined, Morgan plunged into the dying man's mind, sifting through it as quickly yet as thoroughly as possible to find out what he could about the assassination plot, who had instigated it, and whether there were other conspirators still at large. Dhugal, after a moment, did the same, hoping that whatever memories of importance Morgan might happen to miss as they dissolved into the mists of death, he might happen to catch before they disappeared completely. Behind them, Seisyll was directing some of the other Haldane Guards, who bent to pick up the other fallen Deryni and transport them to secure cells in Rhemuth Castle's Keep until they could be further interrogated, tried, and—unless there were extenuating circumstances none of Kelson's men had discovered yet—executed.

#

"The three men worked for Teymuraz," the King's Champion informed Kelson. "The dead one was named Nikos. From Brustarkia, we believe, so probably one of Teymuraz's loyal men since before his exile." Morgan turned to Dhugal for corroboration on that point. Dhugal couldn't think of anything from his own Death-Reading of the man to contradict that information. He nodded in agreement.

"Teymuraz seems to be more or less permanently installed in Byzantyun now," Morgan continued, "and has married into a royal title there. Nikos's memories refer to him as the 'Grand Duke of Phourstanos.'"

Kelson lifted a sable brow. "Which tells me that the Autokrator of Byzantyun probably supports his pretensions to Torenth's throne, and possibly to mine as well. That's…useful information, if rather disturbing. Go on."

"They were operating out of a base in the mountains. In Autun, I believe. It appears to be a private home, but it has a Transfer Portal." Morgan shared Nikos's impressions of the Portal signature with the other Deryni present. "And as to whose home it is, Nikos was never introduced to the man by name, but do you recall this face, Kelson?" He shared a few glimpses of the florid features he'd glimpsed in Nikos's mind, with its pale blue eyes seemingly peering out at the world in astonishment from under thinning brown hair.

"That looks a bit like…." The Haldane eyes glanced at Morgan, startled. "He used to be on the Camberian Council, didn't he? What was his name...Thorne Hagen?"

"Yes." Morgan's lips thinned. "It would appear that Teymuraz has low friends in high places. Or at least who _used_ to be in high places."

Kelson's eyes narrowed. "My Lords, I think it's time we check to see if that rat's nest contains any more vermin, don't you?"

"As long as that 'we' doesn't happen to include _you_, Sire, _I'm_ all in favor," Seisyll agreed with a wry smile at his King.

Kelson chuckled. "No; as satisfying as it would be for me to confront Teymuraz myself, I'd have to come home and live with Araxie afterwards. A hazard I never had to face when rushing off into danger _before_ I was wed."

Morgan and Seisyll, battle-scarred veterans of marriage and concerned wives, laughed. Dhugal, too, added a chuckle and a wry smile of his own, although his amber eyes grew shadowed with the pain of his own recent loss.

#

Morgan, Dhugal, and Seisyll, using the Transfer Portal in the Royal Library annex, stepped from Rhemuth one moment into Autun the next, senses fully alert for danger as each man arrived on the other side.

Casting about them for signs of activity, they could sense the presence of several people within a fairly short range, but only a scant handful in the immediate vicinity. Most seemed to be moving along a street or alleyway outside the building, although there were two in quite close proximity. Morgan had nearly not sensed one of them at first; a presence whose mind was shielded, although those shields were so transparent, he had not detected them in his first mental sweep of the area. But close beside that presence was another one, one with rudimentary shielding. One that felt untrained.

A human, perhaps, though one who had worked in the presence of Deryni enough to have formed some basic shields? No, Morgan didn't think this presence felt quite like that It felt more like...his daughter Grania, perhaps. Well, obviously not Grania herself, but a very young Deryni child.

_This way,_ he Mind-Spoke to the others, although the command was almost redundant, since Seisyll at least had also detected the same thing he had, and was heading in the same direction already.

Morgan opened the door, the other two Deryni poised to offer immediate protective cover for him if needed, whether by means of sword or more arcane powers. Instead, they found themselves staring at a young woman garbed and veiled in the eastern fashion in silks of midnight blue, and a little boy, no more than four years old, the woman standing protectively between them and the child who was presumably her son.

Morgan had seen these two before, in Nikos de Brustarkia's dying mind.

The woman stared up at him, pale crystal green eyes huge, the visible part of her face suddenly gone pale. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"Alaric Morgan, the Duke of Corwyn," he replied. "And you are the Lady Mirjana de Brustarkia?"

She didn't reply directly, but took in the sight of the three men and the heraldic emblems each man wore. The lady began to tremble.

"You are...Lords of Gwynedd..." She swallowed. "Oh, sweet Jesú, what has my husband done?" Her voice was an anguished whisper.

"He has attempted regicide against the King of Gwynedd. I'm afraid, my Lady, that we are going to have to take you into our custody."

#

Dhugal watched the impact of Morgan's words upon the woman. Instead of the hostility he had expected to see in her eyes, so uncannily similar in color to his dead wife's, although judging from what little he could see of the rest of her coloring and features, the two women were otherwise as different as night and noon, he saw a brief flash of—was it relief? -before the quick flicker was chased away by fear. Then her expression became as tightly shuttered as her mind.

"You say he _attempted_ regicide. Your King still lives, then? And Liam-Lajos?" The woman raised trembling fingers to her lips; he thought he caught a glimpse of coral prayer beads clasped between them.

"Kelson does. If there was a similar attempt on Liam-Lajos, we have not heard of it yet. Although..." Morgan suddenly seemed to remember the presence of the little boy whose dark eyes were now peeking around his mother's skirts. "I regret I must inform you that...there was a casualty among the men we captured this day," he told her, glancing down at the child then back up at the mother. The boy continued to look more curious than upset, although the woman's sharp intake of breath told Dhugal that she, at least, comprehended Morgan's meaning.

"I...see." Again, despite the obvious fear in them, there seemed to be a glimmer of relief in her tear-filled eyes rather than the grief or anger Dhugal had expected her to feel. The woman bowed her head, dark-lashed eyes closing, and then she knelt before them, lowering her head until her forehead touched the floor.

"My son and I are at your mercy, my Lords. I know nothing of what my husband might have plotted against your King—by the Christ's wounds, I swear this, and I beg you to read the truth of my words!—but I can tell you he was liegeman to Teymuraz, and his loyalties are not my own." She dared a look upwards at them, her eyes flashing. "My loyalty is given to the rightful Furstán, Liam-Lajos, although..." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "If your liegelord is as kind and merciful as he is reputed to be, then I seek sanctuary in the Court of the Haldane King."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Rhemuth Castle_

_July 17, 1132_

"The Lady Mirjana seeks _my_ protection?" Kelson looked at his Champion incredulously.

"That's what she's requested, my Prince," Morgan affirmed.

"And she realizes her husband tried to kill me last evening?"

Alaric Morgan shrugged, smiling wryly. "Apparently so."

"And she realizes Gwynedd is currently infested with a plague?" The Haldane looked nonplussed.

"She says she knows a few measures to decrease the risk of herself and her son falling ill, my Prince, but that she knows of none guaranteed to keep a determined Teymuraz out of her bed." A wry smile. "She seems rather terrified of that prospect. Having met the man, I can't say that I blame her, really."

Kelson pushed his plate away with a grimace. 'Thank you, Alaric, that's enough to put me off breakfast, I think." He stood, glancing at Araxie and Dhugal in silent invitation. "All right, let's go see why a Furstána is appealing to me for help instead of to Liam-Lajos."

#

The Haldane's steely-gray eyes regarded her warily. She knew it was he, even before she noted the crimson of his tunic with the Lion of Gwynedd couched upon it with gold embroidery. He wore his power like a mantle. Mirjana rose unsteadily from the Tower bench beside the pallet where her son lay in an exhausted sleep. Briefly she lay a fingertip on Mikhail's forehead, setting controls to keep him in deep sleep so that he might not be disturbed by whatever might happen in the next few minutes.

The man who stood on one side of the King was a Duke, Mirjana could tell. Even though he was not in formal dress, subtle emblems of his rank were woven into the trim of his black tunic and the strawberry leaves of Ducal rank were etched discreetly on the deceptively simple coronet he wore on his braided copper-bronze hair. She recognized this man as one of the three who had come to arrest her the evening before.

The golden-haired woman standing a short distance behind him was also Deryni, Mirjana knew, but her rank and place in the Haldane's court was less apparent. She wore no obvious symbols of title or rank save for a simple coronet holding in place the silken veil she wore over her bound hair. A married woman, then, of high rank.

Normally, Mirjana would accord a foreign king a deep and respectful curtsey, but no greater show of servility than that. Today, however, she was well aware that her life and that of her young son could well be forfeit because of her husband's actions. So instead, she prostrated herself on the floor before him in deepest humility.

"My Lord King of Gwynedd, I throw myself upon your mercy for myself and for my son. There are no excuses for the treachery that my husband and his companions plotted against you, but I beg you to be lenient with my son for the sake of his tender years! He has no part in his father's deeds; I pray you spare his life for the sake of the love you are said to bear for my cousin Liam-Lajos."

"I do not take vengeance on small children, my Lady," the Haldane said. "Nor do I exact it upon innocent women, If in truth you _are_ innocent of complicity in your husband's deeds, which remains to be proven to my satisfaction."

"I know, Your Majesty," Mirjana replied, her tight voice barely able to speak above a whisper, "yet I would prove my innocence in this matter and my good faith towards the Crown of Gwynedd in any way you might demand of me. Truth-Read my words, my Lord King, and Mind-See all that I know of my husband's doings, for I place myself completely in your power. I knew Nikos for an evil man—Holy Jesú knows, no one knew that better than I!—and I knew him to be in league with those who wish you harm, but as for specific knowledge of his plans, I knew naught. We...didn't have the sort of relationship that would make him wish to confide his plans to me."

She knew he was Truth-Reading her even as she spoke, although no hint of his own thoughts showed on his face, and his mind was tightly shielded. "I will, of course, hold you to that offer to let us Mind-See what you know, both for your protection and for my own. But my Champion has informed me that you are requesting another boon aside from the mere sparing of your life and that of your son. Why is it that you are seeking sanctuary here in Gwynedd, rather than in the Court of your cousin Liam-Lajos, to whom you claim to be loyal?"

Mirjana swallowed, willing down her nervousness. "Your Majesty of Gwynedd, I know Laji…Liam-Lajos to be King in truth now as well as just in name, but he is still fairly young and untested. I am loyal to him, as was my father's house, but I have not seen him since we were young children together, before he was...fostered in your Court. I believe he would keep faith with me for the love he once bore my father, who was ever his loyal liegeman, yet I know well the intrigues and the machinations of the Torenthi Court, and I do not know enough of Liam-Lajos' strength as King yet to know if he can truly protect me and my son from those who would harm us, although I trust that he would try. I...also have not been in Torenth since it was under a regency, held in Duke Mahael's grip. I do not know anymore which courtiers I can trust, and which ones might be induced to return me to Teymuraz, should they discover I have...some small value to him."

She dared not look up at the Haldane King, yet she could sense him studying her. At last, he sighed. "You may rise, My Lady." Mirjana did so, but only to her knees, sitting back on her heels with her head bowed before the man who held her life in his hands.

"What value _do_ you have to Teymuraz?" he asked, his eyes fixed upon her veiled face. She felt her face warm, ducked her head even lower to hide her shame.

"He...desires me, Your Majesty." Anger rose up within her at the thought. "Yet I will not have him. _Any_ other man in the Eleven Kingdoms but _that _one! I would rather die."

The Haldane eyes surveyed her, seemingly impassive. "Liam-Lajos is your overlord, not me. If we find your memories are in accord with what you have told us, then your life shall be spared. But you shall be his responsibility, not mine."

#

The clear green eyes looked up at Kelson, stricken to the core, filling with tears of despair. Although she had lowered her shields to him willingly when he had first begun to question her, wishing him to know the full truth of her words, now her shields went back up again, a protective gesture Kelson sensed was more instinctive than controlled, attempting to hide the sudden upwelling of emotion roiling within her.

"Please, Your Majesty!" The Lady ducked her head, dark lashes veiling the tear-brightened eyes. With shaking hands, she slipped the eastern-style veiling off, revealing a loosely bound braid of glorious raven hair and dusky rose color rising in her cheeks, putting him suddenly in mind of Rothana all those years ago, in that one intimate garden tryst they'd shared before he rode off on his knight's quest. Her next words, however, dispelled the brief illusion. "I will...do whatever you require of me in return for your protection." Her voice broke, and she paused a moment to regain control. "Do you...require a concubine?"

Sweet Jesú, no, he did _not_ require a concubine! How desperate _was_ this woman, to offer herself so? Clearly, judging from the effort of will it had taken for her to make the offer, he need not flatter himself by thinking she was throwing herself at him out of desire.

Araxie stepped forward slightly, her voice surprisingly mild given the situation.

"It is not the custom in the Haldane Court to maintain a harem," the Queen informed the traitor's wife. "Nor do I believe my husband is in great need of a concubine." There was a hint of humor in her voice, although it held a keen edge as well.

The Lady before them wilted. "Forgive me, Your Majesties. I...did not realize. If you have no place for me at your Court, then at least might you find a place of protection for my son? I know he is too young to be a page, but...there must be something! If I must return to Torenth, I would at least see _him_ safe. There is nothing for him there, for his father's lands were forfeited by his actions before my son was even born. Please do not hold my husband's treachery, or my...my own error against him." She risked an apologetic look up at the Queen. "If you have a son you hold dear, please understand my need!"

#

"Well, that was...unexpected," Kelson muttered to his Queen once they had left the Tower cell and were safely out of earshot of their prisoner.

"You weren't in hopes of starting a harem, were you?" Araxie asked, her gray eyes containing a hint of laughter.

Her husband chuckled a bit self-consciously. "No! One woman is _quite_ enough." He shot a teasing look at her. "Holy Writ says no man can serve two masters." He sighed. "What are we going to do with her, though?"

"I suppose that depends on what Dhugal discovers, doesn't it?" Araxie said. She looked up at Dhugal, who had agreed to be the one to Mind-See Lady Mirjana and, while he was doing so, also check for any controls or compulsions that either Nikos or Teymuraz might have managed to set in her without her knowledge or consent. Setting such controls on a non-compliant Deryni would have been far more difficult than on a mere human, but not impossible. Araxie had also offered to assist him, both as a second set of senses that might spot what the other missed, and also to serve as chaperone, in deference to the fact that the prisoner was a lady and the proprieties must be observed.

The Duke sighed. He had no relish for the work ahead, but it must be done, and the sooner it was gotten out of the way, the better for all concerned. "Shall we go ahead and get it out of the way, then, Your Majesty?" he asked Araxie.

"Yes, let's." She frowned. "I hope she's every bit as innocent as she claims to be. I feel quite sorry for her. I very much doubt she's had the sort of life a young maiden hopes for when she dreams of what marriage and a husband might be like."

#

The prisoner looked up at the door to her cell reopened. Dhugal re-entered along with Kelson's Queen. Mirjana averted her eyes, her cheeks flushing anew.

"You are here to Mind-See the truth of my words, then?" Mirjana asked, already fairly sure of the answer. She risked a quick look at the Duke before dropping her gaze back down to her folded hands.

"I am, my Lady." He glanced at Araxie. "Her Majesty has also agreed to take part, both to ensure that I'm thorough enough in my sifting and to see you properly chaperoned."

"I am most grateful," the traitor's widow said softly. She looked apprehensive, though whether this was because she feared the discovery of some secret, or simply due to the natural apprehension of allowing a stranger into the privacy of her mind was impossible to guess.

Dhugal took a seat on the bench beside Mirjana, not quite looking at her, allowing her that small illusion of privacy at least. "I realize this is invasive, and I regret the necessity. I shall probe as deeply as I must to ensure that what you have told us is true, and that there are no further threats to the King or Kingdom's safety. But what I may safely allow to leave unsifted, I shall."

The young woman nodded slowly. "You must do as you must, and so shall I." She extended a hand shyly to him. He took it, extending his senses, feeling her shields drop as his first questing probe brushed up against them. Hers was a well-ordered mind, bespeaking a fairly high level of training, although not quite as high as Dhugal had expected to find in a lady born into even a minor branch of the House of Furstán.

#

Mirjana tried to hide her nervousness, but with shields down, this was next to impossible, so instead, she tried simply to focus on something else. The growing heat of the room as the time crept slowly towards the noon hour. The richly embroidered hem of the Queen's gown in the periphery of her vision. The warmth of the man's hand clasping hers as he probed deeply into her mind. Although Teymuraz had once attempted a quick grab for her when they were briefly alone together, no man had been permitted such close prolonged contact with her in the past five years save for Nikos. She had nearly forgotten any man's touch could be so gentle.

A part of herself was aware of what memories the Duke was accessing, of course, but she deliberately tried not to think of those, not wishing to relive even one moment of the past four years that had been a living hell for her. Instead, she tried as best she could to focus outwards, at the copper-bronze club of braided hair bound at the nape of this man's neck—a fashion peculiar to the men of Gwynedd's border regions, she dimly recalled from her reading, when reading had still been permitted for her. She tried to remember how many Dukes the Kingdom of Gwynedd had; fewer than Torenth, if she was remembering her childhood lessons properly. Was it three or four? She knew this was not the Duke of Corwyn—no, that had been the golden-haired man who had led the raid on their shelter in the mountains the night before. Even in her native Arjenol, Alaric Morgan had a certain notoriety. She had recognized him almost immediately from the descriptions she had heard of him.

No, this was a Border Duke. Claibourne, then, or perhaps Cassan.

The amber eyes caught hers, the mouth below them smiling faintly. "I'm the Duke of Cassan, my Lady. I apologize; I imagine you _would _want to know who you're allowing to go poking about in your mind."

She dropped her gaze from his shiral eyes, embarrassed that her thoughts had been intercepted so easily, although with most of her thoughts unshielded, this should not have been such a surprise. Was this what it would be like to be mere human? She could not imagine how much more nightmarish her life with Nikos might have been were it not for the ability to retreat behind tight shields. She could tell the Cassani Duke was doing his best to sift through her mind with as much courtesy as the circumstances would allow, allowing her the dignity of leaving the most intimate details of her life private behind her innermost shields, although she assumed the Queen would probably wish to take at least a cursory peek through those as well. No telling what the traitor Nikos might have deigned to share with his wife in their bedchamber, after all...at least, if they'd been a normal couple with a normal marriage, instead of a near slave shackled against her will to a demon from the nethermost regions of Hell.

She looked up to find the amber eyes searching her face with a slight frown. Some bit of that last thought must have leaked through their link, then. Mirjana blushed, and tried not to think at all.

#

"So, what have we discovered?" Kelson looked around at the people seated at his Council table. Sir Seisyll Arilan, looking more drained than Kelson remembered ever seeing him, sat next to Duke Alaric Morgan, who also appeared weary, if not sporting the same dark circles under his eyes that Seisyll wore. Duke Dhugal MacArdry McLain sat on Kelson's left, and Queen Araxie was on his right. Duke Graham MacEwan of Claibourne, now taking his late father Ewan's place on the Council, and Bishop Duncan McLain, serving in his capacity as the Auxiliary Bishop of Rhemuth, completed their number. The rest of their usual membership were either away from Rhemuth at present, in the throes of the fever-flux, or still recovering from it.

"Based on the Death-Reading I did on Nikos von Brustarkia, and the corroborating evidence gleaned from the two Deryni prisoners we captured yesterday, it seems clear that Teymuraz was behind this attempt on your life, my Prince." Alaric Morgan's eyes narrowed. "It would seem that his plan was to weaken the stability of the Haldane succession, laying the groundwork for a more direct invasion later once the plague subsides." The Duke's gray eyes met the King's squarely. "And there's more. It would seem that the introduction of the fever-flux to our shores was not accidental, nor are the climactic conditions which have allowed its spread. That stage of the plot can be laid at Teymuraz' door directly. Lord Nikos did not have the arcane training to do that level of working."

"Were you able to find out where he is now?" Kelson asked.

"Interrogation of the prisoners reveals that Teymuraz tended to come and go from the Autun base, presumably returning to his home in Byzantyun, although that was simply speculation on their part," Seisyll reported. "Neither of the live prisoners seems to know precisely how to get back to Byzantyun via Transfer Portal either. They were led to the one on that end blindfolded, and weren't allowed to memorize its signature before Teymuraz brought them through to Autun. My guess is that Teymuraz kept that knowledge from them because it would lead straight back to someplace he didn't want them—or perhaps us—to have direct access to, but they were lower-level henchmen; perhaps Nikos might have known?" The King's special agent glanced at Duke Alaric.

"If he did, unfortunately that wasn't one of the memories I managed to retrieve as he was dying." A glance at Duke Dhugal, who also shook his head, confirmed that he hadn't either.

"So we know Teymuraz was behind both the plague's spread and the attempt of my life, but we don't have any direct access back to him now that he has apparently fled back to Byzantyun?" Kelson summed up. "All right, I suppose we shall have to wait and see if he shows his hand again. Not _just _wait, of course." He glanced at Seisyll. "I'm sure you'll have your eyes and ears looking for signs of him. But he's lost this round and hopefully will make some other mistake in future that will lead us back to him."

"We _presume_ he's lost this round, Sire," Seisyll said with a frown. "But what if he was simply testing our capabilities this time, in the same way one starts out a Duel Arcane with testing spells before starting the battle in earnest?"

"Also a possibility, but the more we can learn about him and his capabilities, the better we'll be able to defend against him." Kelson looked at Dhugal and Araxie. "And what of our other prisoner, the Lady Mirjana? Did her story stand up?"

The Queen nodded. "Dhugal and I both Mind-sifted her. We believe she was innocent of any complicity in the plots against us. We also found no signs that any compulsions have been planted in her that would make her a threat to us in future."

Dhugal frowned slightly. "She truly believes both she and her son would be in great danger if she returns to the Court of Torenth, and after Mind-Seeing her memories, I tend to concur. She grew up, for the most part, during the recent regency period. While her loyalties are to Liam-Lajos, Mahael and the Court as it was set up under his rule are all she's ever known since early childhood, and by the time Liam-Lajos came into his Kingdom and Mahael was executed for his attempt to betray his rightful liegelord, the Lady Mirjana had already been taken from the Kingdom against her will. She doesn't know this new Court of Torenth, doesn't know who among the current courtiers are her true friends or foes. The Torenthi Court being what it is, of course, she was never entirely sure even before, but now...it would be like sending an inexperienced swimmer into shark-infested waters and expecting her to get across the channel safely." He shrugged. "She may well wish to return to her homeland someday, but not until it's more secure than it is now in the early years of Liam-Lajos' reign. Definitely not while Teymuraz is still in the picture, with his secret supporters. And even if she does, there's not much for her to go home to. Her father is dead, so she has no immediate protector, and her husband was both traitor and outlaw, so her son has no lands to inherit unless Liam-Lajos should choose to grant the boy lands despite his father's crimes."

"I understand the problems, Dhugal, but granting her request for sanctuary here brings up certain problems of its own. What room can I make for a traitor's wife within my Court, without anyone to vouch for her loyalty? Not that I hold her husband's actions against her, but who would be responsible for her support and maintenance and that of her son, and how would she be able to prove her innocence in the court of public opinion? She would need to marry, but that in turn brings up more problems. The man she marries would need to be someone known to be completely loyal to me; otherwise her innocence and his fitness to train up her son to be a loyal subject would still be in question. In addition, because she's a Deryni, and one with some formal training, if that were to become known it would be necessary to show that her husband is not someone she could easily influence with her powers, which means he would also need to be Deryni." Kelson sighed. "I don't exactly have an abundance of unmarried Deryni men I can offer up for consideration."

Dhugal glanced at Seisyll. "What about Sir Sextus Arilan?"

Seisyll took a deep breath. "Sextus took ill with the fever-flux a week ago. It was the more serious form. He was just starting to show signs of pulling through it when I returned to Rhemuth thinking I would simply be checking in briefly, only to discover the Castle was under lockdown due to Deryni intruders." He gave Kelson an ironic smile and shrugged. "Since the unexpected side-trip to Autun and the prisoner interrogations have taken up most of my time and energies since then, I've not had a chance to check in at home in the past couple of days to see if he's continued to mend or if he's suffered a relapse. In any case, he's not in any shape to take on a new wife and child at the moment. Maybe in a month or two, assuming he pulls through."

"I realize th' lad is young, so I hesitate tae mention him, but what about th' Earl o' Marley?" Duke Graham ventured with an apologetic look at Alaric Morgan. "I dinnae think anyone truly doubts young Coris's loyalty tae King and Crown anymore, after th' attempt on th' King's life at th' Hort o' Orsal's Court a few years ago. An' he _is _of marriageable age now, no' tae mention Deryni."

"He is," Alaric grudgingly agreed, "but at fifteen, Brendan is only barely of an age to marry, and at the moment he's still trying to get settled into his full responsibilities as Earl of Marley. Granted, the Lady Mirjana is only a few years older, but we'd not only be asking him to take on a wife, we'd be asking him to take on responsibility for a four-year-old son." Alaric gave the Council a wry smile. "I took a bride under similar circumstances when I was thirty years old, and learning how to adjust to instant fatherhood was rough at times, even though mine was also a love match. Brendan wouldn't have that advantage, and would be asked to become a stepfather under quite adverse circumstances when he's barely beyond boyhood himself. Certainly he would be able to identify with—what's the Torenthi lad's name again, Dhugal? Mikhail?" At Dhugal's nod, he continued, "But that's still asking quite a lot from an Earl barely into manhood and still learning how to be a man, much less an Earl."

Kelson was already shaking his head. "I think it would be a good idea for Brendan to get to know the lad, if he remains here in Gwynedd, but no, I don't intend to saddle him with a wife and child before he's fully settled into Marley." At Alaric's upraised brow, he added "Not that I intend to saddle him with a wife even after that, unless it should become absolutely necessary. Please urge him not to wait until he's thirty to marry, though." The Haldane eyes teased their lifelong friend.

_And not to keep mentioning the other woman in his proposal? _the Queen silently teased her husband with a sidelong smile. Kelson suppressed a rueful chuckle, studiously avoiding looking at her.

_Will I ever live that down, love?_

_ No._

Duke Graham looked around the table, his blue eyes settling on Dhugal. "The Duke o' Cassan is newly widowed, an' his Duchy's succession isnae fully secured yet," he ventured, though he offered this suggestion even more grudgingly than his last one.

"The Duchess of Cassan died barely over a month ago!" Bishop Duncan objected, a sharp edge to his voice. "Surely you're not suggesting that Dhugal re-wed so soon?"

Dhugal stared down at his hands, saying nothing.

"No," said Kelson. "That would be asking a bit much."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_Rhemuth Castle_

_July 18, 1132_

Dhugal MacArdry McLain sat in his liegeman's apartment, cradling his six-week-old daughter Catriona Ailidh in his arms, studying her sleeping features. The child was the image of her mother, the honey-gold fuzz atop her head glistening in the firelight.

"She seems to be thriving," he said at last, looking up at Sir Jass.

"Aye." Jass MacArdry settled onto the bench next to his chief. "Ailidh says she's a good strong nurser."

"I hope it's not taxing Ailidh too much, tending to Trina and Jarrett both?"

"Nay. Lady Mhairi's been a help as well. An' th' other bairns like cooin' at her, especially Aine Rose. She's already askin' when we can go tae market for a sister."

Dhugal's lips twitched slightly despite his somber mood. "Oh, is _that_ where babies come from?"

"Oh, aye! Ye should hae been here th' day Ciaran was explainin' th' facts o' life tae her an' Duncan Michael." Jass's whiskey-colored eyes gleamed with mirth. "He says tha' Nurse takes th' oldest bairns out tae play, an' while they're gone the mum an' dad go tae market an' pick out a likely lookin' babe. If it takes 'em a while tae decide on account o' fussin' an' arguin', the older bairns might even get tae spend th' night wi' Nurse, in which case there's sweetmeats and candied fruit tae look forward to." He grinned. "Though why he thinks his da and his mum would fuss over th' choice, I have nae clue."

A reluctant smirk. "Is there much you and Ailidh _don't _butt heads over?"

Jass laughed. "Nay, but only because th' makin' up is so much fun!" Remembering the other reason for his liegelord's visit, he sobered, studying Dhugal for several long moments. "So, ye're thinkin' o' offerin' for th' traitor's lady?" he finally asked.

Dhugal nodded, not meeting Jass's eyes. "She has nowhere else to go except for back to Torenth, and I wouldn't put it past her late husband's enemies to kill her and her son. Or past his allies to try to recapture her and turn her over to Teymuraz." He sighed. "And Graham's right; my own succession is far from secure yet."

"But yer heart's no' in it," Jass observed.

"No." Dhugal pressed a tender kiss on his daughter's brow and stood, walking across the chamber to lay her down in her basket. He turned back to Jass afterwards. "I've had my love match, though. I doubt I'll ever find another. That doesn't change the facts."

"Ye could give yerself more time tae grieve, though," Jass said quietly. "Yer a man, Dhugal, no' jus' a Duke."

"I am." Dhugal stared out the apartment window at the tower where Kelson's prisoner waited to hear of her fate. "But I'll have to marry again eventually—if not now, then later. And I know..."

He broke off, blinking away sudden tears until he regained his composure.

"Aye?" Jass's voice was soft with sympathy.

"The longer I put it off, the harder it will be for me to do what I must." He sighed. "No, Jass, if I'm going to have to wed again, at least I can choose someone who has need of a husband's protection. Not just pick a bride from the usual lot of women hoping for a Ducal coronet. If I can meet the needs of my lands and serve Kelson's current need at the same time, so much the better."

The door opened. Ailidh entered, an arisaid draped over her shoulders and her three-month-old son, who was loudly announcing the advent of dinnertime under the soft woolen tartan covering. A tiny booted foot kicked his mother in the ribs as she crossed the room to check on the sleeping baby next to Dhugal. "Oh good, four down for the night then, one to go."

"Trina's already sleeping through the night?" the Duke asked in some surprise.

"Well, she'll wake again in a couple of hours, but then she usually has a long stretch until dawn. Then Jarrett here will wake her with his wail announcing to the universe that he's starving to death."

Dhugal poked a finger into one pudgy leg emerging from under the blanket. "Yes, because I can see how much you starve him."

Jass laughed. "Aye, she's fattenin' him up tae drive 'im tae market at harvest time."

"Nay, we'll just stick an apple in his mouth once he's got teeth, then serve him at High Table since, like his da, he likes being the center of attention," Ailidh added with a grin at her husband. She sank onto a nearby chair, looking tired but content. Jass walked over to massage her shoulders beneath the thin shawl.

Dhugal watched the pair fondly, though with a slight twinge of envy at their obvious happiness.

Jass leaned over to get a better view of his wife's face. "Dhugal's considerin' offerin' for th' Torenthi lass," he told her.

"The Torenthi..." Ailidh's eyes gray-green eyes widened. "Dhugal MacArdry, dinnae be daft!"

The Border Duke raised an eyebrow at his retainer's lady. "I'm not simply the MacArdry anymore, Ailidh, I'm the McLain as well. And as much as I'd love to, I can't go to market to get a second son." A shadow crossed his weary features. "I don't even have any guarantee that my first son will survive me. Hell, none of Cauley's true sons even lived long enough to get sons of their own. Is it any wonder he dropped dead when he thought he'd lost _me_ as well?" He sighed.

"Well, Duncan Michael's healthy as a horse now, if ye want tae take a quick peek in at him!"

"And Catriona was healthy as a horse also a month and a half ago." Dhugal's voice softened slightly. "Life doesn't promise us any tomorrows, _a_ _chara_."

Ailidh wilted slightly. "I suppose not. But Dhugal...you've just lost Cat, and there's no doubt that you loved her. How can you even _think_ about bedding another woman so soon?"

Dhugal leaned against the wall, closing his eyes in pain. "I can't, Ailidh. I have _no_ idea how I'm going to bring myself to do that. I just know that I have to. Not only do I need heirs, Cat made me promise to remarry." He opened his eyes, looking miserable. "I don't suppose I need to actually marry right away, just...I don't know. Soon."

"_Cat _asked you..." Ailidh's eyes turned moist. "Sweet Jesú, Dhugal, she hadn't the right to lay that burden on you! It _had_ to have been the fever talking. As if simply being a Duke and an Earl twice over weren't pressure enough!" She blinked angrily to clear her vision. "Though Jass isn't a Duke and has no shortage of heirs, so if _he_ re-weds when I've been gone less than a year, I'll haunt him so fierce he'll have to wear an armored codpiece to save his best bits!" She shot her husband a warning glare and sighed, drawing a satisfied Jarrett out from under her arisaid and handing him over to his father to burp while she re-laced her bodice beneath the tartan covering. Jass stuck his son under one arm, the careful manner in which his hand supported the infant's head belying the seeming casualness of the hold, and made a leisurely stroll across the room towards the stack of clean rags next to Jarrett's cradle. The lad's mother rolled her eyes at Dhugal, then shot a look back at her husband. "Jass, that's a baby, not a football!"

"Aye, he weighs too much tae be a proper football," he agreed, glad for the change of subject. "I'd hurt my foot tryin' tae kick 'im across th' village green." Jass grinned. "Dhugal, ye want yer future pages tough, aye?" He draped one of the rags across his shoulder and hefted his son up to burp him. Jarrett rewarded him with a moist belch and a suspicious sounding sputter from his swaddled end.

His father looked at him askance. "I dinnae suppose ye'd like our lad back?" he asked Ailidh.

"Nay, not at all," she said with a fierce grin. "You've faced down the Mearan army and survived Conall Haldane in one pisser of a mood. You can survive a breech-clout changing."

Dhugal chuckled. "I think I'll flee while I still can, in case mine decides to do the same." He bent to kiss Ailidh on the cheek. "Can I bring anything for you or the children tomorrow? More swaddling cloths, perhaps?"

"No, I've enough of that, though perhaps some fine linen for a few shirts and a coif would serve. Duncan Michael's hit a growth spurt, and Trina will need a new coif; I caught Aine Rose teething on the ties of her current one. While Trina was still wearing it, of course."

"Of course. I'd not expect otherwise from the Terror of Transha's daughter."

A discreet knock sounded on the door. Dhugal, crossing the room in that direction anyway, answered it. A page in royal Haldane livery looked up at him hesitantly. "Message for Sir Jass, Your Grace. Am I at the wrong door?"

Dhugal stepped back. "No, you've come to the right place. He's a bit busy at the moment; I'll bring it to him," Jass's chief said, taking the sealed parchment from the lad. "Thank you."

The page bowed deeply and scurried off. Jass looked up from changing his son's soiled breech-clout long enough to tilt his head towards his wife. Dhugal brought the parchment to Ailidh, then turned to leave. Before he'd quite reached the door again, a sharp gasp made him pause.

Jass too had straightened, his every sense on instant alert. "What's th' matter, Ailidh?"

Ailidh turned stricken eyes towards her husband. "It's yer Da." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "Sir Judd's been struck down wi' th' fever-flux. Yer Ma says they buried 'im on Tuesday last."

#

_Rhemuth Castle_

_July 19_

Duke Dhugal MacArdry McLain knelt before his King in the King's private chamber. The Haldane's puzzled eyes flitted to his Queen and back to his Border Duke again. "You're rather formal this evening," Kelson noted, his gaze taking in Dhugal's more meticulous than usual attire. "Has Christmas Court come early this year?"

"We could all wish," Dhugal said drily, "since that would mean we'd have had several frosts by now to kill the damned mosquitoes."

"Bishop Arilan has an idea about that, actually," Kelson said somewhat cryptically, studying the man before him with increasing bewilderment. "Dhugal, we're in private. I'll tell you Arilan's idea if you'll tell me why the hell you're kneeling."

Queen Araxie stifled a laugh. "The formality _is_ a bit baffling coming from a man who's been up here many an evening whittling his blood-brother's ego back down to a normal size."

Dhugal gave them a fleeting half-smile, then turned serious again. "I've come to ask a boon. Or perhaps to offer you a favor. I suppose it's a bit of both, depending on how one views it." He paused, suddenly looking nervous.

"What sort of a boon?" Kelson asked, completely lost.

The Border Duke took a deep breath. "Kel, I need to marry again. You have a prisoner in need of a husband. Well, in need of a protector, anyway, but it amounts to the same thing."

The King stared at his blood-brother. "You can't be serious!"

"Actually, I am."

"Dhugal...you don't have to do this." Kelson ran his fingers through his raven hair in agitation. "You adored Cat; I know you can't possibly be ready to marry again so soon!"

"I'd be lying if I said I was eager. But I'm able and, more to the point, I need to." Dhugal frowned. "Kel, what if this attack is only the first of many Teymuraz is planning? Not just the attempt on your life, I mean, but _all_ of it? The weather-working, the plague..."

"All the more reason to track down the man quickly and put an end to it all," Kelson said, his gray eyes narrowing.

"I've no complaint with that plan at all," Dhugal agreed, "except that there's no guarantee that we will, at least right away. And in the meantime, I think it's likely that we can expect more such attacks—maybe not the same in kind, but similar in ferocity—until either the man is dead or enough of _us_ are for him to achieve his ends. It's not going to end with a truce."

"No, it's not. But what has any of that to do with you remarrying?"

"Kel, just because we're young, that doesn't mean we're immortal. If I learned anything in these past few weeks, I've learned that. It's bad enough that, if anything were to happen to _me_ in the next dozen years, my Duchy and two Earldoms would be in need of a regency council until my sole heir comes of age. But that heir is also barely out of infancy himself, which means _he's_ even more susceptible than I am. My only other heir after him...well, that would be my father again, wouldn't it, which brings us back full-circle again, given _his_ lack of other heirs..." Dhugal shook his head. "I need at least another son to secure my line; more than one, if I can get them. And that's going to be difficult to do without a wife. And given our current circumstances, I don't know that I can afford to wait until I _feel _like marrying again. What if I never do?" Dhugal looked up at Kelson, the bleakness of his emotions showing in his face.

The King sighed. "Have you spoken to Duncan about all this?"

Dhugal nodded. "Yes. He's as thrilled about it as you evidently are." A half-grin, not quite reaching his eyes.

Kelson turned to his wife for support. "Araxie, help me reason with him."

The Queen regarded Dhugal thoughtfully. "Actually...it might not be such a bad idea." At Kelson's look of surprise, she flushed slightly and added, "Oh, I agree that the timing is awful—I wish the circumstances were completely different, that Dhugal didn't have the necessity, or at the very least had the luxury of more time before making this sort of choice! But it's just..." She sighed. "Kelson, remember, I did a very deep reading of the Lady Mirjana's mind—even more so than Dhugal did. I think a marriage between them could eventually end up being...well, not merely mutually beneficial, but even mutually satisfying." She smiled faintly at Dhugal's stunned expression. "Oh, maybe not a marriage of the heart like you had with Catriona—certainly not at the outset, anyhow. Though I think you might achieve some level of accord later. And there's no doubt at all in my mind that it could be quite healing for Lady Mirjana." She took the Border Duke's hand. "Dhugal, you are strong enough to give her the protection she needs, yet you are also kind; a gentle man with a healer's heart. Think of what _her_ life has been like, these past four years! She's likely to be quite skittish of you at first. You'd need to be very patient with her—she'd not only be adjusting to a different man, but also to a different culture and a very different life from what she's been used to."

Kelson looked dubious. "I understand the benefits for Lady Mirjana, but I'm more concerned about Dhugal's well-being."

"Of course you are, love." Araxie smiled at him. "And Dhugal could, of course, spend his next few years living in the past, mourning over might-have-beens as you once did. Or he could choose to look forward and create a new life for himself...as, again, you eventually learned how to do. Which choice made _you_ happiest in the long run?"

The King shook his head, gave his wife a rueful smile. "Choosing you. But there's got to be _some_ middle ground that's neither as extreme as either a mere six weeks of grieving or a full three years of refusal to let go of the past."

"Certainly! And it would be unrealistic for any of us to expect that Dhugal's grief is going to run its course instantly, whether he marries in three years or tomorrow." Her gray eyes focused on the Duke. "Though you _weren't_ planning on marrying immediately, I certainly hope?"

"No," Dhugal said, giving her a faintly bemused smile. "Although I was planning on approaching the lady tomorrow to offer for her, and given our current circumstances, I think it would be better to marry sooner than later...assuming Kelson will allow me to."

Kelson snorted. "Would there be much chance of me talking you out of it? If I deny you this marriage in hopes you'll come to your senses, you'll just turn around and find some other Ducal-quality brood mare whose pedigree I can't possibly fault, won't you?"

"I'd rather not think of it in _those_ terms," Dhugal said, wincing slightly.

"That's what it boils down to, though," his blood-brother countered, a gleam of challenge in his eyes.

Araxie sighed. "At least _this_ 'Ducal-quality brood mare' is a Furstána, which means she bears the potential for giving Dhugal very powerful Deryni heirs. _If_ we're going to reduce Dhugal to being a mere stud in the Cassani and Kierney stables and Mirjana to being a mare with fine bloodlines, which I'd _much_ rather not." The Queen's voice held a keen edge. "_Do_ try to remember there's a woman with feelings at the other end of this whole discussion. _She_ may not want to remarry after all. There's a possibility—however small—that she might find being returned to Torenth preferable to having to marry Dhugal, especially since she knows nothing about him. Life with Nikos von Brustarkia certainly would've given her no great desire to risk repeating the experience!" She raised a brow at the two men. "You _were_ planning on giving her at least _that _much say in the matter, I hope?"

"Of course," Dhugal said, his voice sounding weary. "I just want another chance to father heirs, Araxie, but that hardly means I want to become the poor lady's jailer and rapist. If she's not willing to accept me, I wouldn't force her even if Kelson would allow it. And I know he'd never permit that; I'm not barking mad!" He scrubbed his face tiredly with one hand. "_May_ I offer for her, Kelson?"

The King sighed. "She is a Furstána, not to mention the King of Torenth's cousin as well as his subject, which means you'll need to ask Liam-Lajos as well." He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "If Liam consents, I won't forbid the match, but I also won't allow anything binding before Christmas Court."

Dhugal turned pale. Araxie, her eyes widening, interposed, "Oh, dearest, _not_ Christmas Court!"

"Why _not_ Christmas Court? That will be six months after the Duchess of Cassan's death, and five after Lord Nikos's...though under the circumstances, at least our Court is less likely to expect his widow to be _too_ bereaved."

"Well, yes, that's all true, but..." Araxie mind-sent Kelson her memories of her first Christmas Court in Gwynedd just four years earlier. _Catriona, High Lady of Llyr, approaching them privately for permission to renounce her birthright and marry their Duke of Cassan... Catriona's joyful entry into the Great Hall of Rhemuth alongside her brother and nephew, to escort her heir to Llyr into Kelson's keeping as a squire and to make formal offer before all assembled for Dhugal's hand in marriage... The fierce light of pride in his bride in Dhugal's eyes... The Lady of Llyr's clear voice echoing through the Hall..."I choose Dhugal Ardry MacArdry McLain, Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney and Transha, and High Lord of my heart, to walk all paths with me, and I with him, for all our days"..._ "Maybe just a _little_ earlier instead?" the Queen pleaded on the Duke's behalf.

Kelson sighed, feeling a headache coming on. "All right, not Christmas. November, then. You're still in mourning, Dhugal, and at least technically so is the Lady Mirjana, if you've forgotten."

Amber eyes clashed with steel gray. "I realize that, Kelson! Sweet Jesú, there's hardly a morning I don't wake up and reach for my wife before the memory returns; you bloody well think you have to _remind_ me?" Tears stood in his eyes. "And as for the Lady, her husband's body has barely had time to cool! I _know_ she'll need a bit of time before she's ready for another marriage. So do _I_; dear God, Kelson, I can hardly even _look_ at a woman right now without seeing my dead wife's face staring back at me! All I'm asking for is permission to _offer _now. Please credit me with _some_ decency!"

Kelson opened his mouth to reply. Araxie touched him softly on the arm. He closed it again, clenching his jaw for a moment, before adding. "Dhugal, it wasn't your love for Catriona I was questioning, merely your timing. You're making a life-altering decision in the throes of fresh grief. I agree it would be best if you remarried eventually. I'm just trying to ensure you don't rush into a marriage you'll regret later when you're thinking with a clearer head." He sighed. "But in any case, you shall need to ask Liam-Lajos. I don't intend to give even a _minor_ royal of the House of Furstán in marriage without the Furstán King's express consent any more than I'd allow him to start offering Haldanes to his courtiers without mine."

"Then do I have your consent to use one of the Transfer Portals to go to Torenthály?" Dhugal asked. "I'll try to be back before nightfall."

Kelson's lips tightened. "You do. I was planning on sending you there anyway on another matter, so I suppose you might as well take full advantage of the trip."

"Another matter?" Dhugal looked surprised.

"A message to Liam-Lajos concerning Bishop Arilan's idea for ridding Gwynedd and the closer parts of Torenth of all these damned mosquitoes and, not coincidentally, the fever-flux as well. Here's what he's proposing..."

#

_July 20_

_ Royal Library Annex, Rhemuth Castle_

Sophie entered the Royal Library Annex at Rhemuth via Transfer Portal, nearly landing on its librarian in the process.

"I do beg pardon!" she exclaimed, her startled green-gold eyes meeting another pair of equally startled sea green ones. There was a moment of surprised recognition, and then both Deryni laughed, the librarian enfolding the new arrival in a brief hug.

"You're welcome to drop in anytime, Lady Sophie," Father Nivard joked, "though next time, try not to bowl me over in the process."

"And was I supposed to scry first to make sure you wouldn't be walking right past the Portal stone at the exact second I come through?" Sophie teased. She pulled back, taking the priest's hands in her own as she studied his face, her expression growing more somber. "How have you been, John? I would say you're looking well, but then I'd have to go to confession for lying." Her lips twitched in an almost-smile. "I heard the fever-flux hit hard here in Rhemuth."

"It has, and is still doing so," her friend confirmed. "We've been...exceptionally busy of late." His eyes darkened. "Seisyll told us of your loss. I'm truly sorry." His expression grew tentative. "How is his brother doing?"

"On the mend finally, praise be to God!" Sophie said. "Actually, that's why I'm here, to give Seisyll an update, as well as to find out why we've not had word from him in the past few days." Worried eyes looked up at John's face. "He was supposed to come home a few nights ago, but we've not heard any word from him since the 16th, not even in a dream-vision, which tells me either something unusual has come up and he's been too busy to contact us, or..." She bit her lip. "Tell me he's not fallen ill or been injured! Surely the King would've sent me word?"

John Nivard shook his head. "No, he's fine, sweeting. There was an attempt on the King's life on the 16th, so Seisyll has simply been very busy during the day. And doubtless also too drained of energy to summon up enough focus to contact you at night, though I wish he'd thought to ask me. I could've gotten word to you, if I'd realized you were worried."

Sophie wilted in relief. "Oh, good! That means I can break the happy news about his brother to him and _then_ kill him!"

The priest laughed. "No, Sophie, you'd certainly have to confess murder, no matter how justifiable." He looked over his friend's changed appearance, frowning slightly. She appeared a bit too frail for his liking, her normally bright eyes shadowed with recent loss. "I understand your children are still in Lady Javana's keeping. Maybe, with Sir Sextus on the mend, you should stay in Rhemuth for a while. I'm sure Sir Seisyll would be glad to have you close by, and you could get a bit more rest here."

Sophie shrugged. "Mayhap. But I have a household to manage, and it's really not fair to leave it all to Jashana to run. She's been through just as much lately. We all have."

Father Nivard raised an eyebrow at her. "Not _just_ as much, I'm certain."

"She came quite close to losing a brother last week, John," Sophie said a bit sharply, taken aback by the priest's contradiction of her statement.

"Which would be a great blow, yes; believe me, I know. But you've recently had the fever-flux yourself, not to mention you also miscarried a child, both of which have taken as much of a physical toll on you as an emotional one. Sophie, who is caring for the caregiver?"

She opened her mouth to reply, found herself shutting it again. Tears began to well up in her eyes. "Maybe I _could _use a few nights of decent sleep," she said quietly. "Not that I'm likely to find _that_ in Seisyll's bed." Her cheeks turned rosy with mortification as she belatedly realized she'd said the last statement aloud, but her friend merely chuckled.

"On the contrary, as busy as the King has been keeping your husband this week, you're more likely to find him nodding off at odd moments whenever he's able to keep still longer than five seconds. Just make sure he doesn't fall down the garderobe shaft."

A peal of laughter echoed through the Library annex as the ridiculous image flitted through Sophie's mind.

#

_July 20_

_ Tower Keep, Rhemuth Castle_

The Haldane Guard stepped aside to allow the Duke of Cassan entry to the prisoner's cell. Dhugal found the Lady Mirjana wringing out her son's tunic over her small wash-basin. She lay the damp garment across the narrow windowsill before sensing his presence and turning to drop into a deep curtsey.

Dhugal glanced at the small boy, playing with a few tiny pebbles in a corner of the cell, clad in his wrinkled shift, and frowned slightly. "My Lady, are you...Is that _laundry_?" He indicated the damp tunic in the windowsill in confusion.

She nodded, her eyes downcast. "We did not have time to pack any belongings when His Grace of Corwyn took us into custody."

"Well, yes, but..." His voice trailed off as he thought back on the days since then. "Forgive us, my Lady. It's been a very stressful past few days for all of us, but we never meant to leave you ill-provided for! I'll see to your need at once." He stepped back towards the door briefly to issue a directive to the guard in a low voice.

When he turned back to face the Torenthi woman, he found her standing next to her son, who was now on his feet and staring at Dhugal curiously.

"Mikhail, this is the Duke of Cassan. How does one greet a Duke, son?"

The boy's big brown eyes stared up at Dhugal for a moment, and then he swept the man a grave bow. Dhugal returned the courtesy, inclining his head at just the proper degree for the lad's lesser rank, yet still with all appropriate ceremony. Mikhail ventured a grin. Dhugal, after a brief moment, smiled back.

"I have a son," he told the Torenthi boy. "His name is Duncan Michael. 'Michael' is the same name as 'Mikhail,' only in Gwyneddan."

The boy looked up at his mother, his face a study in confusion. There was a brief exchange between them in rapid Torenthi. Looking apologetic, she explained the problem to the Border Duke. "I'm afraid my son has only a little knowledge of the Gwyneddan tongue, but he is learning. I believe he is having a little trouble with...that is to say, Your Grace, he's only ever heard..." She blushed, looking uncertain of how to explain.

The Duke chuckled. "I believe you're trying to say he's never heard a Border accent before. It's all right; I'm not offended." The amber eyes crinkled at the corners. "If you think _I_ have an accent, wait until you've met my retinue. Don't worry, he'll soon grow accustomed to it. Though there's the danger you may end up with a little Torenthi who sounds like a Transha lad."

Lady Mirjana risked a shy laugh. Dhugal walked over to the cell's bench, waving a hand towards it in silent invitation for her to sit. Her smile faded, her expression turning uncertain again as she did so. He took his seat on the other end of the short bench.

"My Lady, two matters bring me here today. The first matter is this—as of today, you are no longer a prisoner of the Crown of Gwynedd, but a ward under the King's protection, at least for the short term. Therefore, as soon as proper accommodations can be prepared for you, you'll be moved from the Keep into a regular apartment." He glanced at the window slit. "Where you will _not_ be insufficiently supplied or required to do your own laundry."

The King's new ward looked relieved. "Thank you, Your Grace!"

"As to the second matter." The Duke suddenly looked less comfortable. He glanced at what he could see of the veiled woman's face. Given the similarity of her eyes to those of his late wife, that was no help. "There is one condition to your continued stay in Gwynedd, and it is one that has been decided based on mutual agreement between Kelson and Liam-Lajos. If you would remain here in Gwynedd, you must agree to marry someone who will stand as surety for you." The dark lashes fluttered downwards as the young widow dropped her gaze. "You are not required to marry, however. Should you rather not, then Kelson will still provide you with his protection for the duration of the immediate emergency, but afterwards you will be returned to your own liegelord's keeping."

"For the duration of the immediate emergency..." Mirjana repeated the words in a near-whisper. "What does this mean, Your Grace?"

"Until things settle more or less to normal again. No recent attacks, the plague running its course..." He gave her a wry smile. "Of course, when it comes to the plague, you might well be safer in Torenthály anyway."

"Not from Teymuraz." Mirjana stared at her hands. "Who would your King give me to? I know no man of your Court." Her eyes grew slightly moist. She blinked a few times rapidly until the moment passed.

Dhugal glanced away briefly, feeling his cheeks warm. "Actually...both His Majesty of Gwynedd and His Majesty of Torenth have given me leave to offer for you, if you would be willing to have me." As her eyes widened, he added swiftly, "You needn't give an answer right away. Just...consider the offer?"

The Torenthi widow stared at him. "What manner of man is Kelson of Gwynedd," she asked finally, "that he would seek to reward an assassin's widow by...by offering her a Duke?!" What he could see of her face reflected her confusion.

The Duke in question gave a self-conscious laugh. "Well, it's not quite like _that._" He tried to figure out how to explain. "My Lady...Lady Mirjana...I'm newly widowed myself. My Duchess died of the fever-flux just six weeks past—well, almost seven now—while giving birth to our daughter. And like you, I have a son also, although mine is younger; he won't see his third birthday until Michaelmas." He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench. "You find yourself in need of a protector, someone who will stand as surety for you in Kelson's Court. I find myself in need of more heirs. In less uncertain times, I would wait before remarrying, but as things are...I dare not wait _too_ long, my Lady." He folded his hands in front of him, staring at them to avoid looking at her, wondering what must be going through her tightly-shielded mind. "But you needn't feel you must accept my offer. It is not the King's command that you wed me, my Lady, nor would I wish for you to feel forced in any way. Nor do we wish for you to feel you must rush into the decision. The King would not permit a wedding between us nor any other binding agreement before late autumn, at any rate."

"I...am very sorry for your loss, Your Grace. It is...unfortunate that your wife was only able to give you a daughter instead of the son a man longs for."

Dhugal shook his head. "No, not unfortunate at all; I am quite blessed that she left me a daughter to cherish." He smiled sadly. "It's only a problem in terms of the succession."

The clear green eyes gazed at him in astonishment. "You..._cherish_ a daughter?"

His amber eyes met her gaze. "Aye. Why would I not?"

"Then...if I were to accept you, and I bore you a daughter instead of a son, you would not be angry?" Mirjana stared at him doubtfully.

"My Lady, of course not! It's not like that's something one can pick and choose. Though, granted, I'm hoping for sons as well, for my lands' sake."

Mirjana's eyes dropped to her hands, which started to tremble. "I...was not allowed to have any daughters," she explained, blinking back sudden tears. "If you truly mean that...then I will accept your offer," she said quietly. "I will do my best to give you the sons you need, if you will pledge on your sacred honor that you will allow me to keep our daughters."

_Sweet Jesú, what did that bastard Nikos put this woman through? _"I gladly swear it, My Lady."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_July 20, 1132_

_ St. Hilary's Basilica, Bishop's Study_

"I'm glad to see you came through the fever-flux safely," Bishop Duncan told Sophie. "And also sorry to hear about your loss."

Sophie surveyed him worriedly. Duncan normally had a ready smile for her, his blue eyes bright with amusement as he teased her gently about one matter or another. Today, though, there was little sparkle in those eyes, and the haggard expression on his tired features made him look far older than his forty years of life. There were a few more creases at the corners of his eyes than she remembered, and a few extra strands of silver threaded through the brown hair at his temples.

"I'm very sorry to hear about yours as well. Your son and daughter-in-law weren't married all that long, were they? I remember that Christmas Court and Twelfth Night well…." She smiled in sad reminiscence at the memory.

"Not long at all," Duncan confirmed. "Only three and a half years." He gave his visitor a quick study of his own. "Have a seat, sweeting. You look like you might blow away at any moment."

Her lips twitched. This, at least, was slightly more like the Duncan she remembered. "Why, do high winds come sweeping through your study all that often?"

A smile began to lurk at the corners of his mouth. "No, but why tempt any? Jesú, I've missed you, little one! How is Sir Sextus? I'm assuming from your return to Rhemuth that he's on the mend? Or…have you come to bear bad news to Seisyll?" The bishop's eyes searched hers.

"No, Sextus is recovering finally," Sophie reassured him, "though he's still rather peeved now that he's discovered that the marvelous Ballymar whisky he thought Seisyll was giving him in great quantity was nothing more than mutton broth after all."

Duncan roared with his first genuine laughter in weeks. "You'd have to be quite delirious to confuse mutton broth for Ballymar whisky! I'm glad he's on the mend, though."

Sophie grinned. "Well, he _was_ delirious...but with the illness, his shields were also nearly nonexistent, so Seisyll might have...um...tampered with his mind just a tad."

"Hm. You think?" The blue eyes gleamed with mirth. "Speaking of whisky, can I offer you something? Knowing your tastes, something a good deal less strong than Ballymar's finest."

"Anything but small ale." Sophie's eyes grew shadowed for a moment, then brightened again. "Oh! I have something for you." She reached into her belt pouch, drawing out a small folded square of parchment, sealed messily with wax. The childish scrawl on the outside said 'To Uncel Dunkin.'

The Bishop laughed, handing her a goblet as he took the letter. "Stefania is writing now?" He cracked open the seal, reading the brief missive.

"What does my daughter say?" Sophie asked, grinning at him curiously.

"Well...it's a bit hard to make out...I think it's a request for a book, though. Do you suppose a 'prety boke of owers' really means a 'pretty Book of Hours'?"

She laughed. "Probably."

His eyes looked back up at her from the folded page. "And then there's something about Jamyl and a pony, a big splotch of ink, and she ends with promising to mail me a pie. Isn't she with her Aunt Javana still?"

"She is."

"Hm. Let's hope she doesn't really try to send me a pie, then! How long do you suppose it would take to get to me from the Kheldish Riding?"

"Oh, mercy! It would arrive stale on the outside and moldy on the inside." Sophie giggled as she studied the letter he handed to her. "This smudge looks like some sort of berry stain. I'll bet she was eating pie when she wrote this."

"Oh? Well, then she _did_ keep her promise." He took the letter she handed back to him, folding it again and tucking it into his sleeve for safekeeping. "I suppose I shall have to write her back, then, and hope Archbishop Cardiel isn't too stern with me for encouraging a young lady's affections."

Sophie snorted. "Given that she's only five, I think he'll cope with your exchange of love letters. But if you fear he'll not, it's easier to get forgiveness than permission."

Duncan feigned shock. "Lady Sophie! I _knew_ I shouldn't have married you into those Arilans. A bad influence, the lot of them."

"I shall tell Denis you said so," Sophie deadpanned. She took a sip of her drink, then studied the goblet carefully. "What is this?"

"Sekanjabin. It's a recipe from Torenth. They tend to serve it chilled in summertime and warm in winter, but it's also known to be a good restorative drink after heavy exertion or severe illness. Bishop Arilan brought back the recipe when he returned from Liam-Lajos' Court a couple of years ago. I'll make you a copy if you'd like."

"It's quite nice. A bit tart, but sweet as well." Sophie sipped at the drink some more. "Speaking of Torenth, John mentioned there was an attempt on the King's life a few days ago. Talk in the Great Hall says it was a Torenthi plot." She looked worriedly up at Duncan. "Surely we're not warring with Torenth again, are we?"

He shook his head. "No. The King of Torenth is still Kelson's loyal ally; this was an attack planned by Liam-Lajos's uncle Teymuraz, one of his former regents. He's taken up the old Festillic claim on Gwynedd, apparently, as well as having designs on Torenth." He toyed with the glass in his hand. "One of the assassins left a widow loyal to Liam-Lajos, and she's seeking sanctuary here in Rhemuth. Dhugal is thinking of offering for her." He shrugged. "Might have done so already, for all I know."

Sophie stared at him in shock, hearing the flatness of his voice as he spoke the words, also hearing more than he said aloud. "So soon?" She shook her head. While she had never gotten to know the Duke of Cassan very well, she had encountered him and his Duchess at Court on several occasions, and had also run into one or both of them at various times when visiting the Royal Library or the Basilica. It was common knowledge that theirs was a heart match, not merely a marriage of state. "But...why?"

"Heirs." Duncan took a deep quaff of his drink. "He thinks he owes a swift remarriage to Cassan and his Earldoms, for the sake of securing their succession."

"Well, I suppose, but..." Sophie's hazel eyes mirrored her confusion. "Duncan, he's just _my_ age, isn't he? Twenty-four?"

"Yes. Only seven weeks older than you, to be precise, assuming I've remembered your birthday correctly."

"I'm not sure I understand, then."

"Neither do I." The blue eyes stared across the room, the bishop's gaze fixed on a small lap harp in the corner.

Sophie watched him for a moment, sudden comprehension clicking into place. "Duncan...I can't say I agree with your son's reasoning, but people grieve in different ways..."

He sighed, not looking at her. "I know that, sweeting," he said quietly. "It's just..."

"It's that she was more than just a daughter-in-law to you, I think. There was an especially deep friendship there as well, as I recall. Is that it?" Sophie's voice was soft with compassion.

The bishop's gaze drifted away from the lap harp, returned to his visitor's face. "There was. I've known Catriona since...oh, Jesú, I don't recall the exact year anymore. The latter part of Brion's reign." A dry chuckle. "Longer than I even knew about the existence of my own son, strange as that may sound."

She smiled. "Not any stranger than the mere fact that a Bishop _has_ a son."

He laughed softly. "There _is_ that. A legitimate son, anyway." He took another sip of his drink. "I suppose you're right; I'm having a lot of trouble letting go, and...even more trouble accepting that Dhugal _can_ let go so quickly."

"Are you so sure he _has_, though? The Torenthi widow has only been in Rhemuth for, what, three days? Four at the most? He's certainly not making another love match. I'd think, if anything, he's still so deeply ensnared in his grief that he can't look past it. Can't look beyond his own mortality, and the possibility of his son's." She swirled the sekanjabin in her goblet. "In a way, making heirs is...a way of ensuring that life goes on." She blinked away tears of her own.

"Yes." Duncan studied his empty glass for a long moment before setting it down on the table in front of him. "Speaking of that, I have a granddaughter now." He smiled faintly. "She's in Ailidh's keeping."

"She survived her mother? I just assumed..."

Duncan nodded. "We weren't sure if she'd get through the first two weeks or not, but she's thriving now. She's a beautiful little girl, with Catriona's fair hair. It's still a little early to tell what color her eyes will be."

"So, Ailidh's at Court, then?" Sophie brightened. "I'll have to stop by and see her."

"Do! Except I should warn you, she'll probably put you to work herding little MacArdrys."

"That sounds like fun."

A raised eyebrow. "Have you met the little MacArdrys? I'll say a prayer or twelve for you."

Sophie laughed. She set her goblet down and stood. "I need to head on and meet Seisyll for dinner, if he can get free. But John's talked me into staying here in Rhemuth for a few days. He thinks I need more rest."

"I agree. Sleep off those dark circles under your eyes." Duncan smiled at her. "And come back to see me before you head back to Tre-Arilan. I'll see if I can find some suitable book for Stefania, and maybe something for her mother as well. John's managed to get a copy or two of some Anvillers' scrolls for the Schola, and I thought you might be interested in taking a look at that as well, even if most of it is of more military interest than arcane. You might find it useful if you're still playing that Kingdoms game against Stefan."

She grinned. "It's more like Empires now, but yes. I'm sure Stefan and I will be sending that game book back and forth to each other until the end of time. Or _a_ game book, at least. We're on volume eleven now, I think."

A smile crossed Duncan's face, quickly chased away by a faint shadow. "I don't suppose John mentioned anything about his own loss when you saw him earlier, did he?"

"No" Sophie's eyes darkened with concern. "Oh dear. Who?"

"His sister Elizabeth."

She paused, thinking back on various stories Father Nivard had shared with her of his family. "Was she the one he's said that I remind him of?"

"Yes. That's why I thought you should know, in case the subject happens to come up. Or if you were thinking of asking after her."

"Thank you for letting me know." She hugged her friend, savoring for a long moment the feel of his steady breathing and living warmth within the circle of her embrace. Strong arms enfolded her gently.

"Go fatten up and get several nights of good sleep, so I won't have to run a rope between here and the castle apartments to keep you from blowing away when you're walking through the parklands."

"What makes you think I plan to walk through the parklands when there's a perfectly good secret passage running from the Basilica courtyard to my husband's apartment?" She grinned impishly up at Duncan. "I didn't map all those dark and dusty corridors for nothing!"

#

_Rhemuth Castle_

_ July 25_

"Araxie? Are you all right?"

Kelson woke up to the sounds of retching, then a quiet sniff. His heart nearly stilled. _Oh sweet Jesú, not my Araxie! Please, I couldn't bear to lose _her_ also!_

He grabbed a robe, shrugging into it hastily before padding down the short corridor towards where his wife stood leaning against a wall just outside the garderobe. Her face looked pale.

The King ran agitated fingers through his already disheveled hair. "I'll summon one of the physicians and order up some restoratives...maybe some of that sekanjabin Duncan's been ordering up from the Basilica kitchens..."

Araxie looked up, noted the barely banked fear in her husband's eyes, and gave a startled laugh. "Oh, it's not the fever-flux, sweeting!"

Kelson stared at her uncomprehendingly. "It's not? You're not feeling too hot, are you? Maybe I should open a window..."

His Queen smiled. "Kelson, I'm _fine_. It's not the fever-flux, it's another baby. Our second son, I think, though give me another week or two to be sure."

"A...son?" The panic in the Haldane's eyes turned to stark relief, and a boyish grin chased away the worry on his face. "Oh, well, _that's_ all right then. At least for now..." The gray eyes started to cloud with concern again.

Araxie laughed. "Kelson, will you stop worrying?"

He took a deep breath. "All right, I'll stop worrying if you'll come back to bed and get back under the mosquito netting. Unless...is your stomach quite settled now?"

"Quite." She smiled up at him. "Sweeting, you've had far too much to worry about already this year. Just go ahead and cross me off your list. I've done this twice already, and at least _this_ time I'm fairly sure you haven't given me twins!"

#

_August 1_

_ Camberian Council_

"And your nephew can verify that it was, in fact, Teymuraz who was behind the recent attack on King Kelson?" Barrett de Laney, coadjutor of the Camberian Council, asked Bishop Denis Arilan.

"Not only that, but interrogation of the captured assassins, combined with the Death-Reading of their leader, Lord Nikos von Brustarkia, has revealed that Teymuraz was also behind this summer's fever-flux plague. He was assisted, at least in part, by Thorne Hagen, who allowed him sanctuary on his own lands in Autun to use as a closer base for planning out his attacks. He also introduced the mosquitoes which carry the illness into the ports of Desse and Coroth, and also did a weather-working to ensure an early onset of summer with a rise in heat and humidity practically guaranteed to encourage the mosquitoes to breed quickly and spread the plague throughout the human and Deryni population much more rapidly and effectively than it might have done otherwise."

Laran ap Pardyce leaned forward at this, his eyes bright with interest. "So _that's_ how this illness is spread! I had wondered how it was getting into quarantined areas with such ease, and why it didn't appear to be passed on directly from person to person. Mosquitoes...who would have ever thought..." He sat back, his expression thoughtful as he pondered this new information. "I wonder how Teymuraz knew about them? We've not seen this particular plague on our shores before, at least to my knowledge, so I doubt he found the original insects in Gwynedd or elsewhere in the Eleven Kingdoms."

"An interesting question, and one we'll no doubt want to revisit later, but let's not get too far afield for the moment," said Barrett. "I think the primary question right now is, what are we going to do about Teymuraz?"

Bishop Denis Arilan raised a dark eyebrow. "The man has attempted regicide, has successfully carried out deliberate mass murders on the populace of more than one Kingdom, has drawn others into his conspiracy to destabilize Gwynedd and, to some lesser degree at least, the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms, with the intent of softening us up enough for him to come in and conquer Gwynedd and Torenth—possibly moving on to other lands afterwards as well—to establish himself as ruler. Can we agree that Teymuraz fits any sane person's description of a rogue Deryni?"

Sofiana of Andelon gave a dry chuckle. "I don't think that's at all in question, Denis. Of course, the fact remains that before we can impose any sort of penalty at all on Teymuraz, we have to be able to find him first. And _that _is likely to be difficult. Unless, of course, that resourceful nephew of yours has some additional information he's not chosen to share."

"Do you mean, does he already know where Teymuraz is and how to apprehend him? Unfortunately, no, aside from in the most general sense. We do know he has relocated to Byzantyun and has married into the Imperial Family there." Denis gave a wry smile. "And he's been accorded the title of 'Grand Duke of Phourstanos,' so we can surmise from that that their Autokrator views him and possibly even his claims to Torenth's throne favorably. But no, Lord Nikos's dying mind didn't exactly deliver up a street address and a map."

"How unobliging of it," Prince Azim deadpanned, causing a round of dry laughter around the table. "Well, if we can't solve the Teymuraz problem once and for all, at least for the moment, is there anything we can do to curtail the spread of the plague itself? Right now, that's just as great a threat. Not simply because of the loss of life the fever-flux is causing, but also because of the risk of a major setback in human/Deryni relations if it ever becomes common knowledge that the spread of this plague was anything aside from one of Nature's freak occurrences. If word that it was planned and orchestrated by a Deryni ever gets out, it could undo all of the hard-won progress that King Kelson has made in that area over the past dozen years."

"I had an idea about that," said the bishop, "but I'm less sure about the best way to implement it without possibly causing even more disruption. An early frost would kill the mosquitoes that are causing the plague to spread. The problem lies in the timing of it, though. How early is _too_ early?"

"I see your point, I think," Sir Sion mused. "Too early, and the frost kills off the fall harvest. We save the populace from the fever-flux, only to lose them more slowly over the course of the winter due to starvation. They'd hardly thank us."

Laran ap Pardyce nodded. "Quite true. Though on the other hand, delay _too_ much and there'll be so many additional losses of life to the fever-flux, would there really be any benefit to bringing in a magically-induced frost that's delayed almost until the time one would be due to come along anyway?"

"Mosquitoes tend to favor places with still waters," Sofiana mused. "Though I doubt we can be _that_ exacting in our magic working. Swampy areas would be obvious places to aim at, but unless you've mapped every single puddle and moat in Gwynedd and its neighboring Kingdoms, it would be best to blanket the entire region to make sure no potential breeding ground gets missed." She sighed. "On the other hand, while it would be difficult, it would be far more possible to send word throughout the kingdoms for the manorial lords to bring in the harvest as early as possible this year, and then we could bring in an early frost once the bulk is done. We might still lose a few of the late harvests, especially the fruit crops. But it's vital to have hay for our livestock and grain and legumes for our breadbaskets and cookpots enough to last throughout the winter months, and less essential for us to have a good crop of apples at harvest's end."

"So, if first frost normally comes in October, that would mean trying to get the harvests in, as much as possible at least, by the first week of September, and then using magic to induce a mid-September frost instead?" Barrett sighed. "That probably would be our best option, but still... It means six more weeks at least of plague-ridden mosquitoes. How many more lives are we likely to lose over that much time?"

Laran frowned. "Hundreds, at least, if not thousands. It's hard to tell how many we've lost already. Damn Teymuraz!"

Denis nodded. "Just speaking for Gwynedd's casualties, we have a fairly accurate idea of the numbers of the nobility lost, and the manorial lords are also reporting the number of their dead among their villeins when they're able to get word out to Rhemuth. But of the freemen in the towns, we have no way of keeping track of their losses, except for those belonging to guilds keeping track of such things. The Church, of course, has its own count of our lost brethren and our sisters in the monastic life. But we may never know the exact toll."

There was a heavy silence for a few moments. Then Barrett sighed. "Are we agreed, then, on waiting until the second week of September to summon up a frost throughout the Eleven Kingdoms? I think it shall have to affect _all_ the Kingdoms in the threatened regions, not simply Gwynedd, if we are to get this plague fully in check."

"I agree," said Sofiana.

"Do we have any dissenting arguments, before we put it to a vote?" Barrett asked.

There was a moment of silence, as the various Council members looked around the table at each other. Sir Sion ventured, "My only reservation with the plan was over the timing, but I think that has been addressed as satisfactorily as it _can_ be." He sighed. "I still don't think it's an ideal solution, but I think it's as close to ideal as we're likely to get."

"In other words, you would vote yes?" Barrett clarified.

Sir Sion nodded. "Yes."

"All right, any other discussion needed on the topic before we put it to the vote?" The sightless eyes gazed around the table.

No one else spoke up.

The vote ended up being unanimously in favor of reconvening to work the frost-summoning spell after the first week of September, a unanimity so rare the Bishop of Dhassa joked about circling the date on the calendar and considering the unusual accord to be certain proof of Camber's sainthood, as a miracle had just occurred in his Council Chamber that day.

"And now that _that's_ settled, what shall we do about that Thorne in our flesh?" Sofiana asked, the smoldering angry fire in her eyes belying her deceptively mild voice and the ironic humor of her quip.

"Hagen will hopefully be easier to bring to justice," Prince Azim said. "As Lord of Saint-Stéphane, he'll have responsibilities he can't easily walk away from. No, he'll try to maintain some sort of contact with his household, and from that, we should be able to track him down eventually. He has neither Teymuraz's resourcefulness nor his backbone; he's used to the soft life and it's doubtful he's committed enough to Teymuraz to want to give up his lands and luxuries completely simply on the hope of greater rewards to come. I predict that lack of full commitment shall be his weakness and the key to his downfall."

#

_August 1_

_ Schola of Saint Camber—Rector's Study_

_ St. Hilary's Basilica, Rhemuth Castle_

Bishop Duncan McLain watched the quiet young Torenthi woman who sat across from him, her hands nervously folded in her lap, face downcast. He knew his son had offered for her just a few days earlier; although that wasn't public knowledge yet, Dhugal had apprised his father of that meeting a short time after it had happened. Duncan idly wondered if the Lady Mirjana was aware yet of the familial connection between the Rector of the Schola and the Border Duke who had offered for her hand. If she was aware, she showed no signs of such knowledge. The Bishop surmised she probably hadn't been informed yet.

Good. This would be awkward enough, even as it was.

There was no easy way Duncan could think of to break the day's news to the lady, so he simply did his best to give her the truth straight up, yet delivered as gently as he knew how.

"Lady Mirjana, your husband's accomplices were executed at high noon today in the City of Rhemuth. King Kelson wished for you to be informed. Given the nature of their crimes and the manner of the men's execution, His Majesty believes it best if you and your son would remain within the Castle gates over the course of the next week. Especially given your son's tender age, there are...certain sights you may wish for him to avoid seeing."

The dark lashes drifted downwards to conceal bright green eyes filling with sorrow. "They were impaled before the populace, then?" she whispered.

"No, my Lady. We don't impale criminals here in Gwynedd, but the punishment for attempted regicide is on a similar level of severity, I suppose." Duncan took a deep breath. "They were hanged for their crime, then drawn and quartered. Are you familiar with that form of execution?" He devoutly hoped she was; he had no great desire to apprise her of the grimmer details. To his relief, she nodded.

"Yes, my lord Bishop. I…believe it is also customary to display their heads above the city gates for a week afterwards as well, is it not?" She bit her lip, attempting to control her roiling emotions. "My husband well deserved a similar fate. Yet...I hope your King will understand that I am glad he did not live to suffer it. Not for Nikos's sake, but...I should have found that fate difficult to explain to my Mikhail..." A tear trickled down one cheek, and she blinked rapidly to prevent others from escaping. "How do I explain to my son what his father has done? And how do I convince him that even an evil man may have a good son?"

Duncan's blue eyes filled with compassion for her. "And yet that's true, my lady. Just as it's equally true that a good man may sire a bad son." He thought back to the last execution for high treason that Kelson had ordered a mere four years earlier. "The last man Kelson had to execute for an attempt on his Crown was his own blood-kin, and the eldest son of one of the finest and most loyal men I have ever known. Blood-ties are no guarantor of any man's loyalties or perfidies. Each man's choices are his own."

Her faint smile was filled with sad irony. "Oh, I know full well that blood-ties can mean little! I am Torenthi. Blood-ties meant nothing to men like Mahael and Teymuraz."

"Yet far more, I believe, to men like Liam-Lajos and Matyas," the bishop reassured her.

"I would like to think so. It would fit with the Laji I once knew." She looked up. "But I am not that trusting little girl anymore; nor, I think, is Liam-Lajos the same little boy I once played with in the gardens of Torenthály so long ago." She smiled wistfully. "Would that this were a simpler world, my lord bishop!"

Duncan sighed as he studied the sorrowful young woman before him, still such a stranger and an enigma to himself and to his son, yet potentially the mother of his future grandsons. "I could wish the same, Lady Mirjana."

#

_September 10, 1132_

_ Rhemuth Castle_

Kelson of Gwynedd stood atop the Queen's Tower, his eyes scanning the view beyond the castle walls to the lands beyond.

Araxie pulled her cloak more closely around herself as she moved over to join him. Together they gazed out upon the newly-frosted landscape.

"Do you hear that?" Kelson asked his Queen, a slight smile upon his face.

Araxie listened. She heard the soft snap and rustle of the autumn breezes tugging at high flying banners above the castle walls and the sounds of men and horses rising from the Castle courtyard. Further beyond, from the City of Rhemuth, came the distant calls and creaks and rumbles of a populace going about its daily business.

"Do I hear what, love?" she asked.

His smile grew to a grin. "Actually, that was the wrong question. Is there something you _don't_ hear?"

She thought about the question for a moment, her ears still listening, then laughed. "The whining buzz of a mosquito flying around my head?"

"Exactly!" Kelson took her hand, brought it up to his lips. "And now, I believe we have a Council to address and thank."

Araxie took one more look around her. "Yes." She looked up at her husband. "It seems so hard to believe, after this long summer, that the killing season is finally coming to an end."

"Well, _that_ still remains to be seen. But it will be good to have a little respite, anyway."

Kelson offered his arm to his Lady, escorting her back into the warm shelter of the Castle.

###


End file.
